


Rock Out On The Sea

by Aurora0331



Series: Rock Out On The Sea [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mentions of past abuse (later chapters), Modern AU, Rated E for Sandor's filthy mouth and eventual smut, Salty Sea Dog!Sandor, Sandor has more issues than vogue, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-01-13 17:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 29,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18473263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurora0331/pseuds/Aurora0331
Summary: Sansa Stark is a budding ecologist who travels to a remote island in Scotland to survey a puffin colony. While there, she shares a lighthouse with the irritable and withdrawn keeper, Sandor Clegane. Slowly but surely, they build an understanding of one another, which eventually leads to something more.*** New chapter (Chapter 21) added because I couldn't leave this alone ***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes on this work; Sansa is twenty-eight, Sandor is forty. A mix of book and show canon, including all characters and places. Not beta'd so all comments welcome.

Sansa arrived in Wickenden in the late afternoon, a sheet of drizzle falling softly over the deserted main street as she stepped off the shuttle bus and pulled her Gortex hood over her hair with a shiver. The ferry ride from the mainland had been a cold and miserable one, and she could only imagine what this place was like in the depths of winter; now it was early April, a balmy 7 degrees Celsius, and the sun was peering at her with a watery eye through the clouds. The driver squinted at her through the rain as he hefted her backpack from the belly of the bus, his weathered face crinkling in amusement at her obvious distaste for the climate.

‘Best get used to it, lassie,’ he grinned toothily around the Scottish brogue, handing her the backpack and then bending down again to retrieve the heavy- duty case that contained her equipment. ‘It’s no Mallorca up here.’ Sansa laughed weakly as she took the case from him and shouldered her pack with an air of resignation. She would be here all summer; it was her first assignment for her new job and she would be damned if she gave up because of a bit of drizzle. She’d been incredibly lucky to get the position she did so soon after finishing her PhD, and though all her friends had laughed and taken bets on how long she’d last, it was an amazing opportunity, and if she could just get through until August it would be the start of the rest of her career as a field ecologist. Sansa glanced down the street again, then back to the bus driver. She’d exchanged a series of emails with the lighthouse keeper on the Quiet Isle, who would be ferrying her out to the island and who would also be her housemate for the duration of her time there. To say he had been curt would be an understatement, but in his last missive he had told her to meet him at the inn. At the time she’d wondered how she would know which pub he meant, but seeing the sleepy little village now she felt sure there could only one. She asked the bus driver, and he pointed with a gnarled finger in the direction she was to go.

‘’Bout five minutes stroll tha’ way,’ he told her, his smile widening further. ‘And I’ll see ye when the summer’s o’er, girl, if ye can stand te leave!’ He cackled at his own joke as he slammed the door to the bag bay closed and climbed back on the bus, waving cheerily at her and pulling away in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Sansa allowed herself one heavy, forlorn sigh, before she squared her shoulders, blinking away the cold rain and the hot prickle of tears that threatened to form at the corners of her eyes as she contemplated the long, lonely stretch of time and grey skies ahead of her. _Once I see my first_ _puffin, it will all be worth it_ , she told herself as she began to trudge down the street.

 

The pub was an old, double story building with a low roof and a cheerily painted sign hanging over the door. “The Three Lions” was a far cry from the trendy south London wine bars and secret speakeasies Sansa was used to, but right now she was so desperate to get somewhere warm and dry she pushed through the heavy front door without even pausing to gather herself. Inside, it was indeed cosy, the long, single room of the lower level a riot of polished dark wood and rich red carpet. A roaring fire crackled at one end, surrounded by overstuffed couches. At the other, the bar stretched in a horseshoe shape, and behind it a clutter of bottles of all shapes, sizes and colours hinted at the jumble sales Sansa had visited with her mother as a child. The inn was all but deserted, she noticed then – just a couple sitting at small table by the window and a lone punter at the far end of the bar – and she was glad for it, feeling too exhausted to talk much just now.

 

Pushing back her hood and shivering as the movement shook cold droplets of rain off the waterproof fabric and onto her neck, Sansa carried her luggage the length of the room and smiled at the innkeeper as she laid them down on the thick carpet, lamenting the distance from the fireplace. ‘Hi,’ she greeted the silver-haired man as cheerily as she could manage. ‘My name’s Sansa Stark, I’m not sure if you’ve heard-‘ ‘Aye, the puffin girl,’ the man interrupted her, his answering smile warm and his voice gentle, if a little husky. ‘Whole town’s heard about you. You’ll be looking for Clegane, then.’

‘Sandor Clegane, yes,’ Sansa breathed in a sigh of relief. ‘The lighthouse keeper.’

‘He’s here already. Clegane!’ the innkeeper raised his voice slightly to call the attention of the man sitting alone at the far end of the mahogany bar.

Sansa felt her mouth go dry. _Was she late? She hoped he hadn’t been waiting long, it would make for a terrible first impression if-_

Her train of thought ground to a halt as the man looked up, intense, stormy grey eyes locking immediately with hers as a curtain of long, black hair fell away from his face. _His face_. Sansa had never seen anything like it. She tried to swallow, to clear her throat, but her tongue felt huge in her mouth and silence stretched painfully between them. He was an intimidating man, to be sure; even sitting hunched as he was, he was huge, broad, hulking shoulders muscled like a bull’s under a thick plaid jacket with a dirty sheepskin lapel. His hair was as unkempt and wild as his beard, which didn’t seem to stop at his neck but continued down below his collar in a kind of pelt, like a bear, and his dark eyebrows sat low and brooding over those steely eyes.

 

_Eyebrow_ , Sansa thought before she could stop himself, for he only had one. Where the other should have been – and all across that side of his face, from his hairline to the corner of his jaw – was a twisted mass of old scars, pink and gnarled and terrible in the low light of the inn. Sansa sucked in a breath, and somehow, despite the distance between them, he noticed, his mouth twitching infinitesimally beneath his moustache as he at last broke eye contact and turned his attention back to the dark mug of beer in his huge hands with what Sansa could only describe as a grunt of annoyance. _Terrible first_ _impression, indeed_. Sansa shook herself, unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, and forced her sneakered feet to move, carrying her around the cluttered bar stools towards the man who so clearly did not appreciate her presence.

‘Hi,’ she chirped again, wincing at the forced brightness in her voice. ‘You must be Mr Clegane. I’m Sansa.’

The lighthouse keeper looked up again as she stuck out a chilled hand for him to shake. He stared at it for what seemed like minutes, his brow hanging even lower than before, and Sansa couldn’t say she blamed him. She had obviously been staring, something he had probably put up with for most of his life – however long he had worn those scars. A spark of pity exploded in her chest, and she wondered what had happened to him, and whether they still hurt.

At last, he took the hand she offered, and she saw that there was dirt under his short fingernails, and fresh grazes across his knuckles. As the warmth of his dry, calloused palm enveloped her own chilled one, Sansa felt a flurry of electricity chase up her arm – but the contact was fleeting; he barely pumped her hand up and down once before releasing her like she was a wet fish in the bottom of his boat. He turned away from her again, squaring his shoulders with the bar, and though he did not offer she perched herself on the cracked leather stool beside him, turning her body towards him in what she hoped was a welcoming, friendly gesture as she smoothed away the hairs that clung to her temples and forehead, still damp from the drizzle outside.

‘Thank you for all your help and cooperation,’ she tried again, hiding her hands inside her sleeves so he wouldn’t see that they trembled. If she had been apprehensive before, it was nothing to how she felt now. ‘I wouldn’t be able to go ahead with the survey if it wasn’t for you.’

Clegane grunted again, his eyes fixed firmly on his half empty beer. He had his unscarred side towards her, and looking at him in profile like this she could almost have forgotten about them. Although his nose looked like it had been broken more than once he might have been handsome, she thought, in a rugged kind of way, if it weren’t for the seemingly permanent scowl he wore. He spoke then, at last, a heavy burr stretching the syllables as he told her, ‘Didn’t have much of a choice. It’s my job.’

Sansa’s smile faltered slightly before she restored it with all the determination she could muster. His voice was raspy, a deep rumble in his broad chest, and she wondered if it was from disuse. _Grumpy sod_ , she thought petulantly, feeling some of the sympathy that had overwhelmed her only moments ago begin to fade.

‘Yes, well, I appreciate it all the same. I’ll do my best not to get in your way, or be a nuisance. You won’t even know I’m there.’

At that, Clegane let out a derisive snort of laughter, and Sansa’s smile fell away all together. He picked up his drink and drained it, slamming the glass down on the counter before unceremoniously wiping his beard on his sleeve. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow morning, first light. Be at the docks at dawn or I go without you. Barristan here’ll show you to your room.’

He nodded towards the innkeeper, who was polishing glasses some distance away with a wry smile on his worn face, and with that, Sandor Clegane planted his boots and rose to his full height. Sansa turned her face up to catch his eye, thinking that if she were to stand too, she would only reach his chin – and she had always been tall. But he didn’t afford her so much as a glance, just turned on his heel and stalked out of the inn, ducking as he crossed the threshold to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe.

 

The slam of the heavy front door seemed to leave a ringing inside Sansa’s skull as she sat staring at his empty glass, watching the bitter dregs of ale slide back down the sides and pool at the bottom in a slow crawl. She felt like that; deflated, unwanted, unwelcome. In all her time coming up through university, and now in the workforce, she had met plenty of pigheaded men who didn’t like to see women in science, and she had risen above it all. But this man had gotten under her skin in a way no one had done before, and she could probably count the words he’d spoken to her on two hands. She felt a hot flush creep up her neck and into her cheeks, and the familiar burning of tears behind her eyes. Her jaw clenched as she tried to force down the anger and hurt that she felt, but it was like a balloon was inflating inside of her, pressing against her ribs and rising up her throat until she wanted to scream, to throw his glass against the stone wall as hard as she could and watch it shatter into a hundred pieces.

‘Miss Stark?’ She barely heard Barristan through the roar of blood in her ears as he gently placed a pint of water on the bar in front of her.

‘Doctor,’ she snapped, and though she rarely bothered with the title usually, she had not been made to feel so small in a long time, and she drew an odd sort of courage from it. ‘It’s Doctor Stark.’ But she felt a surge of guilt the moment she met the old innkeep’s kindly gaze – it wasn’t his fault, after all.

‘Of course; Doctor Stark,’ he corrected himself. ‘Don’t mind that grouchy old bear. He’s alone out there so much he’s forgotten his manners, that’s all.’

But there was something sad in the way Barristan’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes that told Sansa that that _wasn’t_ all.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor stepped under the stream of the shower before it had even begun to heat up, sighing as he turned his face into the icy jet. He was no stranger to cold, but still he relished in the way the slowly warming water slid over his shoulders and soothed the aching of his muscles. It had been a shitty day; one that served as a timely reminder of why he’d chosen his solitary path. He was always bored when he came back to the mainland, but the government wouldn’t let him stay out on the Quiet Isle for more than three weeks at time, for the sake of his sanity. Sandor snorted at the thought, lathering a hard lump of soap between his care-worn hands and beginning to wash his broad chest. Ever since he’d taken the job – which was really a strange combination of duties, somewhere between a lighthouse keeper and a ranger – the Quiet Isle had become a place of tranquillity and refuge for him. Out there, surrounded on all sides by a heaving grey sea and a great wide dome of sky, seabirds wheeling overhead and the wind screaming around the cliff face at night, Sandor always felt gloriously small and insignificant. It was as if the rest of the world could disappear one day without him knowing or caring at all; or else, he could disappear from the world. Out there the sharp salt spray cooled the burning rage and bitterness in his heart, and he could work himself hard from dawn to dusk, so that he fell into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow at night and the dreams didn’t come.

 

But, after a few weeks of blissful solitude, the boat would always arrive, and Tormund and Beric would climb up the steep slope to his lighthouse to relieve him, clapping him on the back cheerily as if he were off on some great adventure and not just returning to this shit-heap town full of nightmarish memories for a week of drinking himself into a stupor and wishing he were back on his island, and alone.

 

This morning he’d left his run-down little two room house with a vicious, pulsing hangover, planning to walk out of town and along the cliffs in the hope that the bracing sea air would blow some of the cobwebs away. He didn’t even make it all the way down the garden path, however, before his elderly neighbour, Olenna, popped her head over the peeling fence and grinned at him. He scowled in reply.

‘Morning, Clegane,’ she called to him, tapping one gnarled finger on the paling under her chin. ‘Heard you had a little rumble at the Three Lions last night. Giving old Barristan trouble, are you?’

Sandor didn’t bother to point out to the nosy old coot that she was probably a good ten years “old” Barristan’s senior – nor did he waste his breath telling her that Barristan had had no problem at all with Sandor knocking that smug cunt from Redfort on his ass for the shit he’d said about Sandor’s face. It was not worth adding fuel to the fire of Olenna’s gossip, so he simply grunted noncommittally, barely pausing to look at her.

‘I’d watch that temper, if I were you,’ she called after him. ‘Don’t need another Gregor around here, do we?’

Sandor paused at that, his hand tightening on the gate until the barely closed grazes on his knuckles reopened and began to weep blood. Nothing could drive him into a rage quicker than being compared to his monster of a brother, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of the reaction she was hoping for. _Meddlesome old bitch_ , he thought to himself, stepping out onto the street and slamming the gate behind him so hard it came off one of its hinges.

 

He’d walked along the cliffs for the better part of the day, first to cool his temper and then to reflect on what had roused it in the first place. It was the first time someone had mentioned his brother to him in a long time; since Gregor had been sentenced, in fact. That was five years ago, and it had been the catalyst for his taking the job on the Quiet Isle. Retribution would not be his while Gregor was behind bars, he had reasoned with himself; so why not try to heal his tormented soul way out there in the barren wilderness? And, he supposed, it was his own way of giving penance for everything he’d done in his miserable shit of a life.

 

They’d been boxers, him and Gregor both. They were big fuckers, hard to hit and even harder to knock down. But while Sandor fought with precision and determination – and it was this dogged attitude that earned him the nickname “The Hound” – Gregor was blood-thirsty, vicious and cold. He didn’t just fight to win; he took a sickening satisfaction in maiming his opponent, and that behaviour didn’t stop once he left the ring. Throughout their careers, Sandor had done his best to distance himself from his brother, but the hate in his heart had never weakened, and when he found out that Gregor had been arrested for a string of offences including aggravated assault and manslaughter, he’d seethed at the lost opportunity to deliver justice to the evil bastard himself.

 

Sandor scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the familiar matting of scars across his cheek and forehead. Gregor had condemned him to a lonely, bitter life the day he had ruined his face, holding it over the fire in their living room while a seven-year-old Sandor screamed and cried for help. His father had explained that away, just as he later explained away the death of his infant sister, and his mother after that. Sandor had been sixteen when his father had drowned while out fishing with Gregor, and by then his heart was too hard to feel anything. He’d simply thrown what little he owned in a backpack and walked out of town, not to return until the news reached him of Gregor’s arrest.

 

With a ragged sigh, he looked down at his watch and turned back towards town. He’d almost forgotten – that woman was coming today. The “puffin girl”, as Barristan had taken to calling her, had contacted him some months ago requesting his help getting to the Quiet Isle to survey the puffin colony during breeding season. Sandor was loathe to accept – summer was his favourite time, when the island teemed with life and the sun pierced the clouds and reflected off the waves in mesmerising prisms of colour. But he couldn’t well refuse, and he supposed it was good that someone was taking an interest in the poor little buggers; every year there were fewer and fewer, and every year they arrived a little earlier, their seasonal rhythms thrown out of balance by the increasingly long summers. Part of the reason he was out there was to stop poachers coming out and snatching the chicks before they were strong enough to fly out to sea. He’d exchanged a few emails with the girl – Sansa Stark, that was her name – and each note from her had been painfully polite, all “Mr Clegane”, “please see attached”, “thank you for your prompt response” and “kind regards”. All that professional courtesy made his skin itch. He wasn’t looking forward to her company, not by a long shot.

 

It was starting to rain by the time he arrived back in town, coming down in chilly, driving sheets as it often did at this time of year. Sandor was relieved to enter the familiar confines of the Three Lions, finding it blissfully quiet and, as always, exactly as he remembered it from his youth.

‘Barristan,’ he acknowledged the innkeeper with a nod as he heaved himself onto a stool at the far end of the bar, and Barristan greeted him cheerfully, knowing full well that was about as friendly as Sandor Clegane got. Sandor’s hangover had lessened in its ferocity, enough so that when Barristan poured him a beer and slid it along the bar, he tucked into it without a second thought.

‘Puffin girl coming today?’ the older man asked, folding his wiry arms as he leaned a hip against the glasswasher. Mercifully, he made no mention of Sandor’s brawl last night.

‘Aye,’ Sandor nodded. ‘Damned if I know how I’m going to get through a whole summer with her getting under my feet, talking my fucking ear off.’  
Barristan chuckled. ‘Might be a good thing. I’m sure that lighthouse could use a feminine touch.’

‘Fuck off,’ Sandor grunted, taking another swig of beer. ‘Tormund’s bad enough. Turns the place upside down every time he goes out.’  
That made Barristan laugh in earnest, and Sandor couldn’t help but give a lopsided grin in return. He liked the old man – he was honest, and had more integrity than most people he’d met in his life. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and a few minutes later she walked in.

  
Sandor groaned, pressing his forehead to the cool tiles as he relived their awkward encounter, realising too late that he hadn’t even paid Barristan for the beer in his rush to get the hell out of there. _What a fucking mess_. Sandor had felt an instant attraction to the girl the moment she walked in, shapeless raincoat, damp hair and all. There was something about her fine bone structure and clear, porcelain skin that made him think of noble ladies, of untouchable royalty. He had known at the time that he was fucking up, a tiny voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to be nice. But the moment she’d looked at him, he’d seen the horror in her face, and it cut him deep. He’d put his armour on, that defensive shield of meanness that he wore to show the world that he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. And when she’d reached out to shake his hand – _Gods, her palm had been so cool and smooth_ – he’d seen how neat and clean her nails were, and had become overwhelmed with embarrassment over his own rough paw, dropping her hand as if it had burned him.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he sighed aloud, scrubbing shampoo into his hair. How he was going to get through the whole summer living in the same house as her, he didn’t know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you to everyone for your kind comments and for not thinking this plot was complete crack! Lemons and puffins on the horizon friends!

Sansa’s alarm roused her well before dawn. She had barely slept, having lain awake worrying for most of the night, only slipping into a fitful doze a few hours after midnight. In the harsh light of the single bare bulb, she threw what little she had unpacked back into her bag and then made for the ensuite to wash up. The tiny bathroom was an assault of bright green tiling and shell pink porcelain, the stream from the faucet ice cold and accompanied by a scream of water hammer. Sansa sighed as she scrubbed her puffy face clean. Her greatest fear for this trip, aside from the loneliness, was spending weeks at a time alone on an island with a strange man. All manner of terrifying possibilities had come to mind; but never once had she considered that the man would so obviously dislike her. _Nobody_ disliked her, and that wasn’t a boast; just the truth. She was polite to a fault and always made an effort to make everyone around her feel comfortable. But with this great hulking man, she was in unchartered territory and didn’t know where to step.

 

Sansa arrived at the docks in near darkness, but found Clegane was already there, throwing cargo into the cabin of a battered green boat. His head was covered in a dark woollen beanie that sat so low on his brow it almost hid his scars entirely. He looked up as she approached, eyes shining in the orange glow of the jetty lamps, and reached out expectantly for her equipment case without a word.

‘Careful,’ she cried instinctively as he wrenched it from her grasp. ‘That’s fragile.’

Clegane gave her such a glare then that her mouth closed with an audible _snap_ , but he placed the case down gently all the same before turning back to grab her bag.

‘Don’t be late next time,’ he grunted, and Sansa felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to point out that dawn hadn’t even broken yet, the sky was only just now beginning to grow pink, but there was no point arguing with such a disagreeable man. _He just wants to undermine me_ , she told herself, pointedly ignoring the hand he extended to her as she clambered aboard the boat. She heard him huff what might have been a laugh, but then he had turned his back towards her and a thick silence descended that lasted several hours. The sky lightened steadily as the boat chugged out to sea, and Sansa settled down on a hard bench near the prow to watch the waves. It was windy, and the salt spray stung her cheeks and lips, but she would rather brave the elements than be anywhere near the taciturn lighthouse keeper.

 

Clegane didn’t utter a word to her until mid-morning, when he appeared suddenly with a steaming mug of coffee.

‘Here,’ he held it out to her, and their fingers touched momentarily as she took it from him, wrapping her own hands around the hot cup appreciatively.

‘Thank you,’ Sansa peered up at him, taken aback by the gesture. His mouth twitched, and she wondered if he was trying to smile but the muscles didn’t work that way anymore.

‘You hungry?’ Clegane asked.

‘No.’

He chuckled hoarsely, and this time almost managed a grin. ‘You’re a bad liar.’

Sansa blushed and took a hasty gulp of the coffee, which was surprisingly good, although strong and black. Warmth spread through her chest instantly and she hummed appreciatively. Clegane reached into the pocket of his anorak and produced a brown paper bag, dropping it into her lap.

‘We’ll be there in an hour. Should be able to see the island soon.’

He turned to make his way back to the cabin, and Sansa peeked into the bag, her stomach rumbling in anticipation when she found a flaky, golden pasty inside.

‘Thanks, Mr Clegane!’ she called out.

‘Chirp, chirp,’ he grunted in reply. ‘Just like a little bird, aren’t you? Twittering your p’s and q’s.’

Sansa glared at his retreating back. For a full minute, he’d actually been nice. How quickly his mood could turn sour.

 

All the same, Sansa enjoyed her little picnic, and before long she spotted the Quiet Isle on the horizon. It jutted out of the sea like a great wedge, the eastern shore rising from the waves in a steady gradient until it dropped off suddenly in great cliffs at the westernmost point. The grass was a shade of green Sansa hadn’t seen before, deep and rich, and while there were no trees, hoary scrub grew in thick clusters on the lower half of the island. And, perched there atop the bluff, high above the roiling grey sea, was the white-washed obelisk of the lighthouse, bright as snow against the steely sky. She watched it grow larger, anticipation building as it did. When they were close enough to hear the waves crashing against the rocks, she gathered up her mug and stumbled along the deck to duck into the cabin. Clegane barely glanced at her, his hands deftly steering the little boat around the eastern shore and safely through the rocks to bump up against a tiny jetty. Moments later, he was pushing past her and springing up on deck – surprisingly quickly for such a big man, she noticed – before disappearing from view. She busied herself with gathering her belongings, and it wasn’t long before a large fist was banging on the roof of the cabin.

 

‘C’mon then, girl,’ Clegane was yelling over the rhythmic smash and suck of the sea around the hull. Sansa threw on her pack and picked up her case, cradling it to her chest as she wobbled up on deck. It was much harder to move around, here where the boat was tossed from side to side by the breaking waves. She found Clegane standing with one foot on the jetty and the other firmly planted on deck, moving with the swell as if it were nothing at all. He cut an impressive figure, she had to admit, so surefooted and swarthy, salt spray drying in his beard. She made to move past him, but an exceptionally large roll of the little dinghy pitched her forward against his chest, her cheek pressing hard against the worn fabric of his sweater, shamefully close to his neck. Before she could right herself, two strong hands had wrapped around her abdomen and lifted her, luggage and all, onto the slick boards of the pier. Her knees knocked as she steadied herself, and Sansa did her best to blame it on the sudden disparity of solid ground and not the way Clegane’s huge hands had almost entirely encircled her waist. She felt hot all over, and though he had turned away from her already to busy himself with the cargo, she was sure her cheeks were giving her away. Cursing her traitorous complexion, Sansa turned and made her way along the jetty towards dry land.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Me, banging on Season 8 ala Homer Simpson on the burrito truck* "WHERE'S MY SANSAN?! WHERE'S MY SANSAN?!"
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kind and lovely feedback everyone. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sandor paused briefly in unloading his supplies at the sound of voices. Looking up, he saw Sansa standing at the end of the pier chatting animatedly with Beric and Tormund. The men both gestured simultaneously up the path they had come, no doubt giving her directions to the lighthouse. Sansa nodded at both of them – Sandor could imagine how her thank you’s would sound even if he couldn’t quite hear them – and began the long uphill trudge to the bluffs. Beric and Tormund came towards him then, and Sandor ducked his head with a scowl, throwing himself back into his work with renewed vigour.

‘Hello, Hound,’ Tormund called out as they approached, grinning toothily through the wild orange scruff of his beard. Sandor wished, for the hundredth time, that the Norwegian would stop using his old moniker. He stood to his full height, stretching his back and fixing the two other men with a scowl.

‘Stop calling me that, you mad fucker.’

‘But it suits you!’ Beric looked on in silence as Tormund carried on, his one good eye sparkling with mirth. ‘The mean old Hound, growling all the time. And you’re a fucking liar, by the way.’

‘What?’ Sandor snapped.

‘You told me you hated gingers!’ Tormund roared with laughter at his own joke, and Sandor rolled his eyes. The day Sandor met Tormund he’d been in a particularly bad mood, and when the red-headed shit pointed brazenly at his scars and asked about them he’d damn near bitten the shorter man’s head off. Tormund had asked him then if he was born mean, or if he just hated Norwegians. Sandor, in reply, had told him no – it was gingers he hated. But, for all his faults, Sandor had to admit that he liked Tormund. Much as he used fear as a weapon to protect himself, sometimes it was nice to have someone look him in the eye without flinching.

‘Only the ugly ones,’ he grunted as he strode up onto the jetty, the last of his provisions now piled up on the wet boards. ‘Now get the hell out of here. That wind looks like it’s picking up.’ Beric and Tormund followed his advice, jumping down onto the boat with their packs slung over their shoulders. As they began casting off, Beric looked up at Sandor and spoke, his voice measured and calm as always.

‘She’s a sweet lass, Clegane. Don’t let your demons come between you.’

‘Fuck off, will you?’ came the answering snarl as Sandor planted a large boot on the gunwale and shoving the little boat out into the waves. But Beric looked smug as he waved goodbye, before disappearing into the cabin. With a heavy sigh, Sandor turned back to the island and retrieved a rusted wheelbarrow from the tiny pumphouse by the jetty. He loaded his supplies into it and began the slow ascent towards the lighthouse. Usually, despite the uphill struggle, this was a happy trip for him; it meant he was finally alone, away from the prying of the villagers and the judgemental of gaze Beric’s one eye. But no such elation filled him now – looking up at the lighthouse as it grew larger, Sandor felt what could only be described as nerves bubbling in his chest.

 

He found Sansa inside, warming her hands over the fire that Beric and Tormund had left burning in the little pot-bellied stove. She was looking around the large open living and kitchen area that took up almost the entire base of the lighthouse with interest. ‘Make yourself at home,’ Sandor said sarcastically as he hung his anorak up by the door, right next to hers.

‘Thanks,’ came the cheerful reply. She rotated on the spot, allowing the heat of the fire to spread across the backs of her legs, and once again Sandor was struck by her beauty, her cheeks pink and her blue eyes bright with the exertion of the climb. ‘This is lovely.’

‘A fucking pigsty,’ Sandor bent to gather up a collection of dirty cups from the scrubbed wooden coffee table. ‘Tormund always leaves his shit everywhere.’

‘They seem nice.’ He only grunted noncommittally at that. _No doubt she’d rather be out here with them than a scarred old dog_ , Sandor thought bitterly to himself as he dumped the mugs into the old farmhouse sink. ‘C’mon now, little bird. I’ll show you around.’

 

Sandor gave Sansa a tour of the place, showing her the chilly little bathroom, the storeroom, his workshop, her tiny bedroom on the third floor directly above his own. Mercifully, Beric had changed the sheets and made the bed, but Sandor still felt a twinge of embarrassment at how truly humble it all was, the floorboards creaking under their weight and the cobwebs hanging from the beams above. Sansa seemed genuinely pleased, however, hurrying immediately to the grimy window to peer out.

‘What a view,’ she gasped appreciatively, turning back to him with a smile.

‘It’s alright,’ Sandor shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling uncomfortable now that this was her room. It felt strangely intimate standing here, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting towards the bed and picturing the way her silky auburn hair would fan across the pillows as she slept. ‘C’mon,’ he barked suddenly. ‘I’ll show you the lightroom.’

For the first time, Sandor was grateful for the long climb up to the top of the lighthouse. It gave him time to gather his thoughts and banish the images his mind was conjuring of blankets slipping off bare, creamy shoulders as she rolled over, cerulean eyes blinking slowly awake as she reached out languidly towards him… _Damnit_.

 

They emerged into the blinding light of the top level, surrounded on all sides by storm-proof glass, and Sandor was momentarily distracted by the great expanse of glittering sea that he loved so well. He felt an odd swell of pride to hear Sansa’s gasp of delight as she took it in, turning on the spot and gazing out with wonder.

‘Come up here whenever you like,’ he told her, remembering Beric’s words despite himself, then wincing to hear how gruff his voice had become from his carnal musings. ‘Just don’t touch anything. It’s all automated now, I only service it once a week.’ He gestured to the huge beacon in the centre of the room. Sansa nodded.

‘Do you ever see whales from up here?’ she asked, turning her shining eyes on him with such a look of wonder that Sandor felt a pang in his heart.

‘Aye,’ he rasped, looking away. ‘Minke mostly. The odd orca and humpback. Coming into the season for it now.’

She clapped her hands, as excited as a child, and Sandor’s mouth twitched. He’d spent many a morning up here with a pot of coffee, watching the leviathans breeching and playing in the waters below, heart filled with awe. He supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to share that with someone.

 

Back down in the living room, Sandor showed Sansa how to use the long-distance radio to call shore if there was ever an emergency. He put on some coffee, and watched as she settled down at the kitchen table and began to unpack her equipment from that damned case she’d been so protective of.

‘So, what exactly do you do out here?’ Sansa asked him as she busied herself marking pages in her field guide, dogearing the species she hoped to see. ‘If the lighthouse is automated, I mean.’

Sandor shrugged. ‘The whole damn building’s falling apart. Most of the time I’m just trying to patch her up before a stiff breeze comes along and blows her over. And that damned jetty needs fixing more often than not.’ Without thinking, he pulled off his beanie and scrubbed a hand over his scalp, rubbing the static out of his hair. When he looked up it was to find Sansa staring at him with wide eyes – but she looked away quickly, a blush rising in her cheeks. Anger flared inside Sandor so suddenly that it consumed him, and before he knew what he was doing he was striding across the room towards her and slamming his palms down onto the table, glaring down its length to where she sat staring fixedly at the book in front of her.

‘Look at me,’ he growled, turning his scarred side towards her and pointing to it, his movements staccato as he struggled to contain his temper. ‘Go on, have a good fucking look. It’s not going to get any prettier.’

When she finally raised her eyes to his, he was alarmed to see that they were filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, shame evident in her face. Guilt cut through Sandor’s rage like a knife.

‘Fucking hell,’ he spat, more to himself than her, as he pushed himself off the table and stormed out into the weak afternoon sun, grabbing his raincoat as he went and slamming the door behind him, with no intention of returning any time soon.

 

Sitting shell-shocked at the table, Sansa allowed a few fat tears to fall onto the cover of _Collins Scottish Birds_.

 

 _And it had all been going so well_.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa barely saw Clegane over the next few days. He woke even earlier than she did, and spent all day outside. Sometimes she saw him from a distance, striding across the bluffs with a shovel over his shoulder, or else down at the jetty if the weather was fine, painting the pumphouse with steady, even strokes. By the time he came in at night she’d often retreated to her bedroom, bone tired from a day spent out in the elements, and she listened to him moving around in the kitchen before coming up the stairs and settling into bed in the room below. Sometimes she heard the bedframe creak beneath his bulk as he rolled over, and she wondered whether he hated her, or was just the most ill-tempered man she’d ever met.

 

She knew she’d been wrong to stare at Clegane’s scars. He’d made it clear from the moment Sansa met him that he was sensitive about them, and she hadn’t meant to gawp; but she’d almost forgotten they were there until he took off his hat, and then she’d been struck anew by thoughts of how painful the injury must have been. Despite his furious reaction, Sansa was surprised to realise upon reflection that she hadn’t found his scarring nearly so unpleasant to look at this time around. Perhaps it was because she was becoming increasingly drawn to the intensity of his silver eyes, and the honest expression of his suntanned face.

 

Since that moment, though, the few times Sansa and Clegane had been in the same room he had worn a deep scowl and refused to meet her eye. He didn’t utter a word, but she noticed that he always left enough coffee in the percolator for her in the mornings, and without fail left a pot of porridge on the stove keeping warm for her breakfast. In return, she made enough dinner for two in the evenings, cooking hearty stews or soups from the root vegetables he had stockpiled in the storeroom. When she came downstairs the next day the food was always gone, the dishes washed and stacked neatly on the kitchen counter.

 

But despite the constant tip-toeing around her brooding roommate, Sansa woke every morning filled with joy and excitement. Every day, more puffins arrived, congregating in little flocks on the bluffs. They were sweeter than she ever could have imagined; little heart shaped faces and heads that seemed comically out of proportion with their bodies, beautifully striated bills and triangular markings around their eyes that made her think of clowns. Three times a day she walked along the cliffs, counting. She marked on a map of the island where the nests were, noted how many pairs were nesting on the rocky outcroppings of the bluffs and how many were using burrows, and banded as many as she could without disturbing them too much. Some she even fitted with GPS trackers – though she had only brought precious few of the expensive kits with her – and downloaded their movements onto her laptop each night with barely containable excitement.

 

On her fourth day on the island, Sansa was sitting at the kitchen table in the early evening, downloading some photos from her camera that she had taken that day of a young male digging his burrow. She could hear the wind building outside, and hoped that the little birds were safe and snug out there.

 

Suddenly, the front door blew open with a bang and Clegane ducked inside, slamming it shut quickly behind him. Sansa stiffened and watched him remove his coat, hat and boots before he straightened up and met her gaze. This time it was his turn to look away, his expression almost sheepish. Sansa turned her attention back to the screen in front of her, but she found she could no longer concentrate on her work – she was acutely aware of the big man’s movements around the room as he went first to the faucet for a glass of water, then to the stove to warm his hands. She could feel Clegane’s eyes on her then, and heard him shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he were anxious. Eventually, with what seemed a forcedly casual gait, he wandered over to the table and sat down at an arm’s length from her, leaning back in the chair and chewing the inside of his cheek as if lost in thought. Sansa looked up again, and this time he held her gaze. She was surprised to see that he was no longer wearing his habitual scowl.

 

‘I owe you an apology,’ he rasped, then cleared his throat as if embarrassed by how harsh the words had sounded. Sansa blinked. ‘Shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You’d think that after living with my ugly mug as long as I have, I’d be used to being stared at.’

It was oddly painful to hear that from him. ‘No, you had every right to be angry. I was wrong to stare, and I’m sorry.’

‘Little bird,’ he chuckled, spreading his hands on the tabletop. Sansa glanced at them, noting the dirt on his knuckles, the thick veins that bridged the backs of his hands, how wide his fingers spanned and how _strong_ they looked. Suddenly she could feel them on her again, remembering how easily he had lifted her, and her mouth went dry as he rumbled, ‘I was out of line, and you know it.’

She gave him a small smile, pushing down the butterflies that had risen in her belly when he called her _little bird_. That was a nickname she could get used to. ‘It’s no problem, Mr Clegane.’

He seemed to stiffen at that, and she thought for a moment that his mood was about to turn, but then his heavy shoulders dropped. ‘No need for all that. If you have to call me anything, call me Sandor.’

‘Alright,’ Sansa replied, hoping that her confusion didn’t show on her face. This man was growing more complex by the day. She wondered if his dislike for that form of address was the reason for his change towards her on the boat. Silence fell between them, but it was not awkward this time. His eyes looked softer somehow, his body relaxed as he regarded her.

 

‘How’re your puffins going?’

‘They’re great,’ Sansa felt her smile widen in earnest at Sandor’s question. ‘Such sweet little things. And there are quite a lot, I was expecting there to be fewer.’

Sandor nodded, one hand rubbing his beard absentmindedly. ‘Aye, the numbers look better this year. My first summer out here there were hardly any of the poor buggers. Suppose the government’s got serious about protecting them.’

Sansa leaned forward, intrigued. ‘How many years have you been out here?’

‘Five.’

‘And the population’s definitely increased, in that time?’

‘Aye. The whales, too.’

‘That’s amazing,’ she positively beamed. Little creases formed around Sandor’s eyes then, and for a moment they sparkled with what might have been mirth. Sansa was struck by how handsome he looked in that moment.

‘So,’ he gestured towards her laptop. ‘You getting everything you need?’

‘More or less,’ she shrugged. ‘I’d like to watch them more, but it’s hard without disturbing them. I need a hide.’

‘The fuck’s that?’

Sansa laughed despite herself. He really was incredibly crude. ‘A bird hide. It’s a little box that you sit in with a tiny window, so you can watch the birds but they can’t see you.’

‘Huh,’ he grunted, looking pensive for a moment before he planted his feet and stood, stretching his back as he did so. ‘I think it’s my turn to cook tonight, don’t you?’

Sansa felt herself flush at the pointed look he gave her. It was only a small thing, but his acknowledgement of their awkward dance over the last few days seemed to melt away the last of her resentment. _He’s too easy to forgive_ , she thought to herself, wondering how this harsh giant had managed to win himself a soft spot in her heart so quickly.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter but (hopefully) a goodie!

Sandor didn’t sleep well that night. He’d spent the evening in Sansa’s company, and while they hadn’t spoken too much after dinner, his head was spinning by the time he climbed the stairs to his cold bedroom.

 

After they’d eaten, she’d insisted on washing up. Sandor had sat down to clean his tools after a day spent in the salt spray down by the jetty, but hadn’t been able to stop himself from glancing up at her from time to time. She was a fine sight from behind, he had to admit, all long legged in those jeans, her arse high and tight. _Damn it_. He’d had to force himself to focus on his work when he found himself wondering what it would feel like to have her thighs wrapped around his ears, growing hard at the thought. _Stop that, you dirty old dog._ He’d just about succeeded in lowering his blood pressure when Sansa came to sit on the couch opposite him, tucking her feet under her and settling down with that battered old field guide open in her lap.

 

‘There’s books over there,’ he motioned to the bookcase in the corner, drill bit in hand. ‘Looks like you’ve read that thing cover to cover a couple times already.’

She grinned at him and leapt up with childlike enthusiasm. ‘Thanks. I wanted to ask if I could read them, but…’ Sansa trailed off as she crossed the room, casting a sheepish look back at him.

Sandor managed a rueful smile. ‘Afraid of my bite, huh, girl?’

‘Your bark,’ she corrected, her back to him now as she perused the titles stacked haphazardly on the shelves. Some were his – some had belonged to the previous keeper, and some had been brought out by Beric. Tormund wasn’t much of a reader. Sandor snorted. She couldn’t understand the significance of her quip, of course, without knowing his wretched past; and he was oddly glad that she didn’t. He chanced another peek at her, then wished he hadn’t. Sansa was stretching to reach something on the top shelf, her woollen jumper riding up her back as she did, and he was afforded a glimpse of smooth, pale skin. Sandor swallowed hard and looked down at his hands, rough and dark and dusted with black hair, the nails cracked and dirty. _Hands like mine could never touch skin like hers_.

 

Sansa chose a book and came back to the couch, flashing the cover at him as she sat down. ‘ _Of Mice and Men_. Is this yours?’

Sandor nodded. ‘Not a happy tale, I’m afraid.’

‘Didn’t pick you for a penny dreadful type anyway,’ she shot him a cheeky smile, then hid her face behind the book. Sandor said nothing, and the next hour passed in companionable silence.

 

As it grew late, Sansa plopped the book down on the coffee table and stretched, back arching like a cat’s. _She’ll be the death of me_ , Sandor thought hopelessly, as even this small action stirred his arousal.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she stood and made her way to the stairs, reaching up to untie the sloppy bun on top of her head.

Sandor only grunted in acknowledgement. His tools had been clean half an hour ago, but he’d been so lost in his own thoughts and the glow of her nearness that he’d made no move to pack them away.

‘Oh, and it’s not ugly,’ his head snapped up at that. Sansa was standing in the semi darkness at the foot of the staircase, her auburn hair falling in waves to frame her earnest face and tumbling over her breasts. She was a vision, even with her jeans tucked into her thick knitted socks, and Sandor was suddenly reminded of _The Birth Of Venus_. ‘Your mug, I mean,’ she finished softly, before turning and padding away up the stairs.

 

For a long time, Sandor sat as if turned to stone and tried to wrap his head around what had just happened. Of course, she hadn’t exactly called him handsome – but _not ugly_ was about the biggest compliment a man like him could hope to receive from a woman like Sansa. He didn’t dare hope that she reciprocated even a small semblance of the attraction he felt for her; but she had thrown him a bone all the same, and it was one that he was likely to gnaw on for some time. At last, with a heavy sigh, Sandor packed up his tools and trudged up to his room.

 

In the hours he lay awake that night, Sandor heard the groan of Sansa’s mattress above him more often than he usually did. He couldn’t help but wonder whether she was lying awake too, tossing and turning and thinking about what had passed between them that evening – but that was a stupid fantasy.

 

All the same, he couldn’t discipline his thoughts for long before they found their way back to her. And when his insistent erection finally got the better of him and he took himself in hand, it was with conjured images of her smooth back arching beneath him in ecstasy, of her pretty eyes rolling back in her head as he pleasured her until she screamed his name, of her hands touching his face as they made love in the lightroom under a blanket of stars.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get really fluffy in here
> 
> CW: mentions of past abuse, brief but will be explored more in later chapters

If Sansa had hoped that she would see more of Sandor following their evening together, she was disappointed. For the next three days they returned to their lonely rhythm, and while she tried to stay up later than usual in the hope that he would come in from the cold and talk to her, he spent every evening holed up in the workshop that adjoined the storeroom, only retiring long after she had already given up and gone to bed. A few times, Sansa had almost gathered up enough courage to go out there and see what he was working on – but she always lost her nerve, reminding herself that one pleasant evening did not a friendship make.

 

It hurt her, though, to think that he was avoiding her. She’d enjoyed Sandor’s company – he was a reassuring, if silent, presence as he busied himself with his tools across the living room from her that night. Truth be told, Sansa had found it hard to concentrate on the book she’d chosen; her eyes drifted constantly to him, watching the deft, practiced movements of Sandor’s hands. Now that she was alone so much, Sansa had plenty of time to reflect on him, and she wondered often what had driven him to his life of isolation. He was positively cantankerous, to be sure; but he could be kind when he wanted to be, and what little glimpses he’d given her made her positively ache for more.

 

_Stupid_ , Sansa tutted audibly, shaking herself out of her reverie. Mooning over a man who couldn’t even stand to be around her for more than a few hours. Had she learned nothing?

 

Sansa’s track record with men wasn’t just bad – it was tragic. When she met her first boyfriend at university, it had felt like magic; some kind of fairy-tale come to life. She had always been romantic as a young girl, and when she met the rich, handsome Joffrey Baratheon who was studying commerce and singled her out at a trivia night, she fell quick and hard, blind to the myriad of red flags that popped up along the way. By the time they’d moved in together, his pattern of emotional abuse had her feeling less and less like herself every day, and Joffrey had managed to convince her that she deserved every “lesson” he taught her. Sansa spent the three years of her undergraduate degree living as a shell, and it wasn’t until one particularly terrible fight suddenly flicked a switch in her brain that she gathered up the remaining shreds of her courage, packed her bags and walked out of the door. She did her best to return to a normal life, to make up for lost time; but there was something inside her that was different. Not broken, but certainly altered beyond recognition.

 

Sansa moved universities and began her masters. She managed to build a new life for herself, and that was when she met Associate Professor Petyr Baelish.  

 

The thought of him was enough to make her gag, even now. She could still remember the smell of spearmint gum on his warm breath as he whispered in her ear. Baelish was highly respected in the university, and he had taken a keen interest in her, offering to take her on as a PhD student when she finished her masters. Feeling like her luck had finally turned, Sansa accepted – but in the first year of her studies under Baelish, everything changed. What began as clear favouritism escalated rapidly into what Sansa could only describe later as grooming, and eventually full-scale sexual harassment. It had continued into her final year, when another student had seen him corner Sansa and kiss her on the stairs. What had followed was messy and traumatic, but Baelish was eventually fired in disgrace, and Sansa managed to rally herself into completing her thesis and submitting on time, despite the humiliation and pain.

 

After all that, Sansa found that she felt dead below the waist more often than not. She had not been interested in a man in so long that she sometimes thought she never would be again; but now, thinking about the way Sandor had called her _little bird_ and looked at her with such intensity in his eyes, she didn’t feel so hopeless after all.

 

Sansa had been on the Quiet Isle for a little over a week when she came downstairs to find Sandor standing with his back to the stove, coffee mug in hand. She was so used to her solitary morning ritual that she jumped at the sight of him, prompting Sandor to huff with amusement. Sansa shot him a look, but couldn’t help the smile that spread over her face – it was undeniably good to see him.

‘Sleep late, did you?’ she asked, brushing past him to help herself to coffee.

‘No. Just waiting for the little bird to wake up and start chirping,’ he took a noisy slurp from his mug.

Sansa had to wonder how one man could manage to have so many facets. This morning he seemed almost jovial; it was hard to believe he was the same person that had spoken so harshly to her in the Three Lions that first day. She took a sip from her own cup and turned to look at him expectantly.

 

Sandor cleared his throat, looking down at his boots, and if Sansa didn’t know better, she would have said he had suddenly grown shy. ‘Got something to show you. C’mon, it’s outside.’

 

Curious, Sansa followed him out into the pale dawn light. She loved this time of day – it was so peaceful, before the wind picked up and the seabirds began to shriek and holler. Down by the bluffs, she could hear the faint cooing and growling of puffin pairs in their burrows, and her heart swelled. Sandor led her around the side of the lighthouse to his workshop, where he stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. _He **is** nervous_, Sansa realised with a start. She felt a sudden, weird impulse to reach out and take hold of the sleeve of his plaid jacket, to give him reassurance, but instead she waited patiently for him to speak.

‘S’over there,’ he grunted, gesturing with one big paw for her to walk around the back of the shed.

 

There, sitting on the dewy grass, was a bird hide. Enclosed on three sides with a heavy hessian flap covering the open back, it was the perfect size for Sansa to sit in comfortably. She walked around it slowly, barely able to believe her eyes as she took in the craftsmanship. He’d made it out of old wooden crates, disassembling them and then nailing the slats together with precision. A tiny window had been sawn out at eye height, and inside there was a bench for her to sit on – to which he’d even attached a tattered old cushion. The outside of the hide had been covered with old burlap sacks, as much for camouflage as to keep the worst of the weather out. Sansa touched them gently, feeling the rough fibres as if to remind herself that this was real. She looked up at Sandor, struggling to find the right words. ‘You made this?’ she asked, at length.

‘Little bird needs a nest,’ he mumbled, shrugging as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his old jeans.

‘It’s perfect, thank you so much,’ Sansa could barely contain her excitement, and for one wild moment she thought she might throw her arms around him.

‘Yeah, well,’ he coughed and squinted out to sea, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘Don’t go on about it.’

Sansa had to laugh at that. ‘Will you help me move it?’

‘Aye. Just tell me where you want the damn thing.’

 

Sandor helped her lift and carry the hide over to her favourite spot on the bluffs, and she barely had the patience to go back inside and wolf down some breakfast before she gathered up her camera and notebook and raced back out to settle in for the morning. The hide was extremely cosy, and just the right size for her – though she suspected Sandor would have to fold himself in half to fit in it. _Or maybe in quarters_. She chuckled as she imagined the big man squeezing himself into the little box like a contortionist. Raising her camera to the tiny window, she snapped a few shots of a puffin couple engaged in vigorous billing only metres away. Sansa watched their courtship display with interest, reflecting that she would never have been able to get this close to the birds without the cover of the hide. She still felt overwhelmed by Sandor’s kindness in building it for her; just a few days ago she would never have believed that he was capable of such a gesture. She wondered if he would ever stop surprising her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I am LOVING how much you are loving this little story. I'm so inspired at the moment so the chapters are coming thick and fast. Hope you enjoy!

Sandor didn’t quite know what had possessed him to make the bird hide for Sansa. In fact, if he thought about it, he couldn’t quite recall ever consciously deciding to do it; he had simply found himself in his workshop one afternoon, drawing up plans for the little Sansa-sized cubby. He supposed it was a kind of peace offering, or else a way of making amends for screaming at her. Her reaction had made it all worthwhile, of course – the memory still made him smile even now, almost a week later. Sandor stopped digging for a moment, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow and glance up the hill to where Sansa was walking along the bluffs, counting the puffins as she did every day just before dusk. Her hair was a flash of colour against the steely sky. Sandor could picture now how her cheeks and the tip of her nose would be flushing with the cold as a strong wind began to scream up the cliffs. It looked as if it might storm soon, and Sandor knew that meant he would have no choice but to trudge up to the lighthouse and spend the evening trying not to stare at Sansa.

 

He had been avoiding her still, even if their relationship had become almost friendly in the days since he had built her that damned box. It wasn’t because he didn’t enjoy her company – indeed, quite the opposite. And that was very much the problem. As a general rule, Sandor didn’t enjoy company at all. And while his attraction to Sansa had begun as purely physical, he couldn’t deny that he was starting to feel something more for her now. She wasn’t senseless and vapid as he’d expected her to be; rather, everything she said was measured and insightful, and even when he lapsed into long silences as he was wont to do, she didn’t attempt to fill the spaces with inane chatter. More than that, her funny little witticisms had even prompted him to laugh out loud on a handful of occasions. And most of all, she was unfailingly kind, even when he didn’t deserve it. People, in Sandor’s experience, were typically shit – selfish and false; but Sansa was neither of these things. Just pure and good.

 

Sandor felt the first few fat drops of rain on his face and decided it was time to abandon the potato patch. With a sigh, he shouldered his shovel and began a slow walk back up to the lighthouse. It was hopeless, he knew that. Sansa had to be at least ten years younger than him, maybe more; a smart, beautiful young woman in the prime of her life. Sandor, by contrast, was just a grumpy old man with a fucked-up face, a terrible temper and a mean streak a mile wide. He’d never been lonely before, but now he wondered if that was because he’d never met anyone he’d liked enough to miss. Sansa had come along and ruined all that. She’d only been in his life a fortnight and Sandor was already saddened at the thought of her leaving. He couldn’t help but wonder how much damage she would do to him in a whole summer – and the thought terrified him.

 

When Sandor arrived back at the lighthouse, he heard the scream of the old hot water system churning away and knew that Sansa was in the shower. Shaking his head to rid himself of the mental images of her naked body that formed, unbidden, behind his eyes, Sandor made for his bedroom to change out of his wet clothes. As he passed the kitchen table, he saw Sansa’s laptop open and chanced a glance at the screen, wondering if she had some new photos from the day. But it was an email window that he saw instead, and before he could look away to spare her privacy the subject line had hit him like a punch to the stomach.

 

_To: Stark, Sansa_

_From: Baelish, Petyr_

_Subject: You know I’ve always loved you_

Of course. _You fucking idiot_. Sandor had assumed that there was no one in her life; she had never mentioned a partner or a boyfriend, and she definitely didn’t wear a ring. He looked away, his throat dry. A storm of emotions was forming in his belly, ones that had become unfamiliar to him during his years of isolation – disappointment, jealousy, sorrow – and, of course, his old friend white hot rage. Sandor knew himself well enough to recognise that this was a good time to put some distance between himself and Sansa, before he said something he would later regret. He took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time and slammed the door behind him, breathing hard as he attempted to work through what he was feeling. The voice of rationality in his head was telling him that she didn’t owe him anything, and he had certainly never asked her if she was with someone; that he had been so starved of kindness in his life that he had mistaken hers for something more, and that wasn’t her fault.

 

But there was also a much louder voice – one that drowned out the rational one and the roaring blood in his ears. _She’d never look twice at you, you ugly old dog, and you were a fucking fool to hope that she would._

 

Sandor sat on his bed and dropped his head into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. He had to get a grip. Alright, so she had a boyfriend – no problem. That didn’t mean things couldn’t carry on as they had between them. They were barely even friends, and as long as he stopped leering at her whenever they were in the same room, there was nothing wrong with their relationship continuing as it had. And he was more than happy with that.

Even as Sandor stood up and began to strip off his wet clothes, he knew that he was lying to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking Baelish, amiright guys? 
> 
> Your comments on the last chapter were so life-giving that I can't resist dropping another one. Enjoy!

Sansa was deeply upset by Baelish’s attempt to contact her. She hadn’t even bothered to read the email – the subject line had been enough. He didn’t have anything to say that she wanted to hear; it was all part of his power games, she knew, weaselling his way back into her life when she had finally escaped to a place where he couldn’t touch or influence her anymore. She’d gone straight to the bathroom for a hot, soothing shower, bitterly regretting her decision to purchase a high-powered dongle so that she could access her emails while out on the island, and that was when she heard the fat raindrops beginning to fall on the frosted window pane. Sansa felt a little better. Rain meant that Sandor would have to come inside. She could think of nothing better to soothe her fraying nerves, than to spend an evening in the snug little living room with him, while the rain came down in droves outside. He didn’t have to say much – or anything at all, really – just rumble “little bird” at her and give her that small twitch of the mouth that she now knew to be a smile. That would be enough.

 

Before long, she heard the slam of the front door, and the sadness in her belly gave way to rising excitement. Sansa heard Sandor stomp up the stairs – to change, she assumed – and stepped out of the shower to dry and dress herself with barely contained eagerness. She started to formulate little plans in her head; what she would say to him, what she would cook for their evening meal.

 

But when Sansa finally emerged into the living room with an expectant smile on her face, she found it empty. _No matter,_ she reassured herself, settling in with a book to wait for him to come downstairs.

 

Sandor never came. Sansa cooked and ate their meal alone, leaving his to cool on the table. She kept her ears pricked for any movement upstairs, but heard nothing, and when the hour grew late she was forced to give up on him. She climbed the stairs dejectedly, pausing for a moment outside his room. Under the door there leaked a faint glow, as if of lamplight. He was awake, then. Sansa raised her fist, hovering over the peeling paint for what felt like minutes as she tried to gather the nerve to knock.

 

But her courage failed her, and she let her hand drop to her side before continuing her lonely climb up to her bedroom. In bed that night, Sansa listened to the storm rage outside and the creak of Sandor’s floorboards below, and finally allowed herself to cry.

 

After that, Sansa decided she needed to focus. Sandor was a distraction from her work on the Quiet Isle – and, she reminded herself, he didn’t even want her there. That much was obvious. So she went back to her routine of the first few days; going to bed early, waiting until she heard the front door shut before getting up in the mornings. The hurt she’d felt when he hadn’t been there for her after Baelish’s email was incongruous and stupid, she knew that – but it had hurt all the same, and she didn’t want to feel that again. She allowed the distance between Sandor and herself to grow again. There were only a few days left until they would go back to Wickenden, she reminded herself, and then she would have a whole week without the surly, changeable man under the same roof as her.

 

Somehow, the thought wasn’t as comforting as she would have liked.

 

One morning, she came in from counting the flock to see Sandor’s hat and coat hanging by the door, his worn-out boots strewn haphazardly on the floor beneath. _He must be in the lightroom_ , she thought, her eyes rising instinctively to the ceiling. Shrugging, Sansa set about brewing a fresh pot of coffee. It was a cold morning, but clear and still – the sea had been like glass, whispering against the cliffs.

 

‘That you, little bird?’

Sansa jumped. The shout had come echoing down the spiral staircase, unmistakeable gruff as Sandor always was.

‘Yes?’ she called back, tentatively.

‘Come up,’ he yelled. ‘And bring that coffee.’

Curious, Sansa grabbed two mugs and began to carefully carry the percolator up the stairs, inwardly cursing the long climb.

 

When she emerged blinking into the lightroom, it was to find Sandor standing at the seaward side, staring out the huge window at the horizon. He turned to her with a lopsided grin that made her heart perform a somersault and held a hand out to her expectantly.

‘Smelled that from up here,’ he nodded towards the coffee pot as she passed him a cup. ‘Take a look out there.’

Sansa followed his gaze, her eyes scanning the shimmering surface of the wide blue-grey sea, stretching out to join the horizon in a silvery haze.

‘Oh my god.’ Smooth, dark backs rose from the water in an undulating rhythm, pectoral fins piercing the surface like a knife through butter. ‘Are they…?’

‘Minke whales,’ Sandor nodded, watching the pod intently. ‘About twenty of them.’

 

Time seemed to stand still for Sansa. The pod were moving slowly, almost as if they were dawdling – the younger whales lagged behind, rolling onto their backs and flashing their white bellies to the sky. She sucked in a breath as one of them breached suddenly, as agile as a salmon in a stream, his long, pointed snout rising high above the water before crashing down to the surface again. As if in competition, another, smaller whale leapt up moments later, entire body leaving the water and tail slapping as if in celebration as he came back down. Sansa was overcome with awe, hot tears welling up in her eyes.

‘They’re playing,’ she whispered, and her voice broke with emotion.

‘Aye,’ Sandor chuckled, raising his coffee cup to his mouth.

 

They watched the whales in silence, standing side by side. Sansa was acutely aware of how close his hand was to her own – that if she reached out just a few inches, she could intertwine her fingers with his. She remembered how his hand had felt when she shook it that first day – the palm rough with callouses, soft dark hair on the back. An ache rose unbidden in her chest as she wondered how they would feel ghosting up and down her back at night as she drifted off to sleep, warm and cherished in his big arms

 

Sansa blinked. She had never allowed herself to enter into fantasies about Sandor before, but the image had come so suddenly, and now she didn’t want to let it go.

‘Why do you avoid me all the time?’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Sandor looked taken aback. ‘I, uh…’ he coughed, then rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Sansa looked up at him expectantly. He met her gaze, then looked away again, sighing, ‘I’ve been on my own a long time, little bird. I’m not good company.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ she told him, taking a sip of her coffee and looking back out at the sea. The whales were moving off now, the slow roll of their spines quickening as if on the hunt.

Sandor snorted. ‘You’re a funny thing.’

 

They didn’t speak again – there was no need. Sansa felt that an understanding had been reached, and when the pod had passed out of sight, she gathered up the coffee pot and empty mugs.

‘See you for dinner,’ she told him, making for the stairs.

‘Aye, little bird. You will.’

Sansa couldn’t stop a smile from spreading over her face as she began her descent.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly overwhelmed with the response this fic has had and all your beautiful comments are warming my heart! I am so excited to get these chapters out to you that I'm barely even proofreading anymore so please excuse any typos you come across!

Exactly three weeks to the day after Sansa and Sandor had made their trip out to the Quiet Isle, Tormund and Beric bumped up against the jetty in their little green boat. Sandor found that he was less easily annoyed by Tormund’s raucous jokes than usual, but even so he was eager to get away from Beric’s watchful eye. The older man looked positively smug as he watched Sandor gently help Sansa onto the deck, and it made Sandor flush with equal parts embarrassment and anger.

 

‘Enjoy your little holiday, Hound,’ Tormund called as he waved them off enthusiastically, and Sandor could have kicked him for that, if they hadn’t been slipping rapidly out to sea.

‘”Hound”?’ Sansa repeated, curiously, as Sandor had known she would – she didn’t miss a beat, that girl.

‘Just a stupid name he calls me,’ Sandor shrugged. ‘Must be a Scandinavian thing.’

To his relief, Sansa seemed to accept that, and curled up in the corner of the cabin to watch him steer. The island fell away behind them, and soon it was just them and the great, glassy expanse of ocean and sky.

 

Sandor felt agitated. He always dreaded going back to the mainland, but there was something else now underneath that – a kind of sadness. He didn’t want to go back to the little run-down shack he kept in town, didn’t want to go back to evenings spent in despondent silence, or else a drunken haze at the Three Lions. No; he wanted to spend his nights with Sansa, as he had ever since their unspoken agreement in the lightroom several days ago. He wanted to sit next to her at the scrubbed table and watch as she clicked through image after image of puffins, and watch her face light up with enthusiasm as she discussed each individual pair, though they all looked the same to him. He wanted to feel the soft fibres of her woollen jumper when her sleeve brushed his hand as she reached over him for more salt at dinner; to catch a faint trace of her scent (soap and clean linen and something else floral) as she breezed past on her way to bed. He wanted comfortable silence, and he wanted her incessant chatter when she got excited about some topic or other. He wanted her soft voice when their conversation crossed into more serious territory – though that never lasted long. He wasn’t ready to share anything from his past with her, and he doubted he ever would be.

 

But all the time, Sandor had that nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him not to get his hopes up. There were a number of insurmountable hurdles between them; her boyfriend, for one. Sandor decided to clear that up once and for all, if only to quash that last dwindling bit of faith that refused to go out and save himself some pain down the line.

‘Well, then,’ he cleared his throat. Sansa looked over at him. ‘You’ll be looking forward to calling your boyfriend, when we get there.’ He kept his eyes on the horizon, steeling himself for her answer.

‘Boyfriend?’ Sansa gave a decidedly unladylike snort. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

Sandor frowned. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d seen her email – it had been an invasion of privacy after all – but it didn’t make sense to him. ‘No?’

‘No.’ Her voice was firm. ‘I haven’t had one of those for a long time.’

Sandor went quiet, allowing the cogs to turn in his brain. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Sansa go a little pink as she looked out the window, and he wondered if he’d embarrassed her. ‘I thought…’ he trailed off, realising that he didn’t have an explanation to offer her. ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’ Sandor finished lamely.

‘That’s quite alright,’ her soft little voice made his heart wrench. _Always so polite_.

 

‘So,’ Sansa said suddenly, startling him out of a daydream in which she was sitting astride his lap and kissing him passionately, her long hair a thick curtain falling around them and blocking out the rest of the world.

‘Huh?’ he grunted.

‘What do you do, when you go back to town?’

‘Fuck all.’

‘You don’t go and visit your family?’

Sandor almost choked at that. The thought of visiting Gregor in prison would have been laughable if it wasn’t so damn tragic, and the rest of his family… well, yes, he did sometimes visit their graves. But that wasn’t something she needed to know about.

‘No.’ His air of finality wasn’t lost on Sansa, who fell silent for several minutes before piping up again.

‘I was thinking about taking the bus to Darry for a day. It’s supposed to be beautiful – I read about it in a pamphlet the day I arrived. There’s a castle there, I thought I might take a tour.’

Sandor turned that over in his mind for a moment, as the hills behind Wickenden appeared on the horizon. A half-formed plan was taking shape, and he decided to lay his cards down before he lost his nerve. ‘Aye,’ he nodded. ‘Good idea. But you don’t need to take the bus, little bird. I’ll drive you.’

 

He didn’t have to be looking at her to know her face had lit up at his offer – he could hear the smile in her voice as she started thanking him profusely. Sandor waved away her thanks, gruffly telling her to ‘cut that shit out.’ Sansa did as she was told, but was practically bouncing in her seat as Sandor pulled up to the docks with the grim realisation that she was well and truly under his skin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist paying a little homage to some of Sandor's choicest lines in the show. He's one cranky boi

When they arrived at the docks, Sandor tied off the boat before taking her pack out of her hands wordlessly and walking off in the direction of the Three Lions. She hurried after him, taking two strides for every one of his.

‘Your room alright? At Barristan’s?’ he asked her, his speech clipped in that funny way he had of always using the bare minimum number of syllables to get his point across.

‘Fine,’ Sansa puffed. ‘It’s fine. I like it better at the lighthouse, I think. I’m going to miss the puffins,’ she added hastily. He nodded, but said nothing.

 

They turned onto the main street and began to walk along the footpath. It was quiet in the town, just as Sansa remembered from the day she’d arrived; but after the isolation of the Quiet Isle, she was acutely aware of the rumble of traffic in the distance, of an argument between neighbours somewhere behind them carried on the wind, a phone ringing incessantly inside a house somewhere. She looked up at Sandor, thinking how marked the difference must be to him after so many years spent out there alone. Indeed, it was almost as if a shadow had fallen over his face the moment they stepped back on the mainland; his brow seemed to sit lower, the lines around his eyes and mouth stood out in sharp relief. Even his scars seemed more pronounced, stretched tight with the tension in his jaw – the last few weeks on the island she had grown to barely notice them. Sansa decided to voice her thoughts.

‘It must be hard, coming back here. You seem so happy on the island.’

‘Happy?’ he barked a laugh. ‘Is that how you’d describe me, is it?’

Sansa frowned. She knew Sandor meant it as a joke, but it wasn’t funny to her. She knew there were demons in his past – that much was obvious – and she didn’t like that he was so dismissive of it. He deserved better. ‘You’re a grouch. But marginally less so out there.’

He chuckled appreciatively. ‘Aye, I am. But you said it yourself. Bark’s worse than my bite.’

 

When they reached the Three Lions, Sandor pushed the door open and held it for her. She ducked under his outstretched arm, murmuring her thanks, and entered the pub. It was exactly as it had been three weeks ago – Sansa thought Barristan might even have been wearing the same clothes, like a cartoon character. She smiled at the old innkeeper, waving cheerily as she and Sandor approached the bar.

‘Look at that,’ Barristan grinned from one to the other, looking for all the world like someone’s proud grandfather. ‘Doctor Stark, we thought you’d be radioing in for a rescue party after a few days with Clegane here. But, see, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger – carrying your luggage for you and all.’

Sansa blushed a deep red. ‘I didn’t ask…’

Barristan waved his hand jovially, dismissing her protestations. ‘You’re alright girl, you’re alright. He’s not totally devoid of human feeling, I know. Care for a drink, you two?’

Sansa looked up at Sandor hopefully. He seemed to hesitate, but just as he opened his mouth to answer the door banged open.

 

‘Alright there, big ‘un?’

Sansa and Sandor turned as one to see a short man with a weather-beaten face swagger into the pub. He had a crooked grin and a goatee, and Sansa took an immediate dislike to him.

‘Bronn,’ Sandor grunted in acknowledgement, his face a mask of displeasure. He seemed to share her sentiment.

‘Well, lookie here, eh?’ The man called Bronn looked Sansa up and down, then turned his shrewd gaze onto Sandor. ‘Aren’t we all happy families? Life must be good out there on that bit of rock.’

‘Shut the fuck up, and mind your damned business,’ Sandor snarled.

‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ the feigned injury in Bronn’s voice made Sansa’s skin crawl. ‘Have a drink with me. We can tell your new friend here all about old times, eh, Hound?’

Sansa’s ears pricked up. There was that nickname, again. She could practically feel the hot waves of rage rolling off Sandor, and noticed his hands had curled into fists by his sides.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Aye, you’re a talker. It’s a shame nothing that comes out of your cunt mouth is worth a damn.’

Sandor handed Sansa’s pack to her then and strode out of the pub without another word. In the ringing silence that followed, Bronn sauntered over to lean against the bar. Barristan fixed him with a glare, which Bronn promptly ignored and turned to Sansa. ‘Don’t envy you, spending all that time out there alone with that monster.’

‘He’s not a monster,’ Sansa said sharply.

‘Aye, you’re right,’ Bronn nodded. ‘His  _brother_ is the monster. This one’s just the runt.’

 

Sansa waited for several days for Sandor to come and take her to Darry. She tried not to stray too far from the inn, in case he came, and a few times she even considered asking Barristan for his home address. She decided against that quickly; if she knew anything about Sandor at all, it was that he was an incredible private person and wouldn’t appreciate her turning up on his doorstep like that. She assumed he had business to deal with first, and would come to her as soon as he was free.

 

Bronn’s words had not been lost on her. His mention of Sandor’s brother – before Barristan promptly told him to _shut his mouth_ – had been ominous to say the least, and Sansa, in her lonely hours watching the road from her window, cast her mind back to all her conversations with Sandor that might give some clue of his past. But he had given her nothing; when she asked about his family on the boat, his answer could not have been clearer. Sansa had thought at the time that perhaps he didn’t have any family, and that had made her sad. She wondered if anyone had shown the gruff man love in his whole life. Sansa pictured her parents’ kind faces as they offered her words of support and encouragement, their warm embrace, and felt a little stabbing pain to think how empty her life would feel without them – how empty _she_ would feel. Was that the secret behind Sandor’s gruff exterior?

 

Sansa was mulling on that when a black Jeep, ancient but in good condition, rumbled up the street and parked in front of the pub. The door opened, and Sandor unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, dressed in a cream Aran jumper and surprisingly clean jeans. Sansa’s heart soared, and she leapt up from the window seat, flying to the bathroom to check her reflection. Her eyes were huge in her face, like a rabbit in the headlights. Grabbing her jacket, she ran down the stairs and past Barristan, who watched her bemusedly.

 

Out on the street, Sandor was busily moving maps and newspapers off the passenger seat. He straightened up when he heard her approach, and she had to fight not to grin foolishly at him when he met her gaze. His eyes were the exact colour that the sea had been on the day they watched the whales, and he looked as if he’d even brushed his hair.

‘Sorry it took so long,’ he grumbled. ‘Had to service the old girl first.’

He patted the roof of the Jeep affectionately. An image of Sandor in grease-stained overalls flashed through Sansa’s mind, and she found herself forgiving him immediately.


	12. Chapter 12

Sandor found it hard to keep his eyes on the road. It was an hour’s drive to Darry, and Sansa was looking particularly gorgeous, dressed in stockings and a dark blue dress. His gaze drifted often to her thighs, tantalisingly close to where his hand rested on the gearstick. The last few days had been torture for him – he had felt her absence acutely, particularly in the evenings as he had known he would, but the encounter with Bronn had left him seething, and he knew better than to be around her when his blood was up. Sansa had already seen too much of that side of him. Sandor still felt bitterly remorseful whenever he thought back to that awful first day on the Quiet Isle, when he’d flown off the handle at her just for looking at his scars. It was a miracle that he’d managed to claw himself back into her good graces after that, but that was one of the things he liked so much about her; she was incredibly forgiving. She looked him in the eyes now, he noticed, and he liked that very much, too.

 

Sansa was twirling the end of her long braid around her index finger and staring out the window, watching the endless rolling pastures and hedges with an interest and enthusiasm that seemed ridiculous to Sandor, who had spent half his life here and didn’t see anything special in it. But it was adorable all the same, the way her eyes lit up as they passed tiny cottages with thatched roofs and grazing flocks of sheep like little puffs of cotton against the grey-green grass. She had not mentioned his outburst in the pub from the other day, though he could tell it was on her mind, and he was grateful for that. He couldn’t explain his relationship with Bronn without going into his whole sordid history – something he really did not want to do. Sandor had a horrible nagging feeling that Sansa would think less of him if she knew, and who wouldn’t? He’d led a life of violence for most of his adult years.

 

_And childhood, too_ , a little voice reminded him.  

 

Sandor sighed, running a hand through his hair. He felt the scars under his fingertips, and tried to imagine a world in which he was totally different; whole and handsome and happy, the kind of man that Sansa deserved. It was as if every time he became resigned to the life that Gregor had carved out for him the day he pushed his face into the coals, some new disappointment would appear – some other beautiful thing that he could never touch, because he was ugly and angry and bitter.

 

‘Sandor?’ Sansa’s voice roused him from his miserable reverie, her pitch heightened in alarm.

‘Huh?’ he looked over at her, then back at the road as he quickly realised he had sped up considerably. Sandor took his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to slow to a more comfortable pace, realising as he did that she had just used his name for the first time. He found that he liked it, very much.

‘Away with the fairies?’ Sansa smiled at him, her posture relaxing.

He huffed in amusement. _If only she knew._ ‘Aye, something like that. Sorry.’

‘That’s alright. Are we nearly there?’

‘Nearly, little bird.’

She laughed. ‘That nickname’s really stuck, huh?’

‘Of course,’ he glanced over at her and allowed himself a grin. ‘You are a little bird, chirping away with your pretty red feathers.’

‘Pretty?’ Sansa repeated, her blue eyes round as saucers as they fixed on him.

_Fuck._ Sandor cleared his throat awkwardly, and cast about for something to say to cover up his incredibly large blunder. ‘Your hair. It’s, uh… unusual.’

‘Tormund told me you hated gingers.’

‘He fuck- what? That stupid cunt,’ Sandor blustered, realising too late he’d dropped an incredibly offensive curse word in front of her for the second time that week. Sansa didn’t seem to mind though – she was laughing again, enjoying his reaction.

‘I thought that was why you were always avoiding me.’

Sandor blew a breath through his mouth, rubbing a hand over his face. This conversation was becoming more and more uncomfortable by the second. ‘No. I told you, it’s because I’m a grumpy old man who isn’t used to sharing his island with anyone.’

‘Are you used to it now?’

Sandor quashed the urge to look over at her before he answered. It was too dangerous.

‘Just about,’ was all he said. Thankfully, Sansa seemed satisfied, and she fell silent, looking back out the window.

 

Meanwhile, Sandor’s heart was racing as if he’d just run a marathon. He felt like he’d narrowly avoided a disaster just now, but couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

 

They arrived at Darry just before midday, and Sansa wanted to get a guide to take them around the castle, to which Sandor did not agree. ‘Piss on that. No point paying thirty pounds for some teenager to read out the signs for us.’

Mercifully, Sansa didn’t argue, but she did insist on taking every pamphlet in the damn information booth. Sandor told her that at least they’d be useful when they needed to start the fire in the lighthouse, and she giggled appreciatively. He had to stop himself from grinning like an idiot as he followed her through the gatehouse – it felt good to make her laugh.

 

They wandered around the castle for hours. Sansa insisted on stopping to read every plaque, and when he grumbled and complained she reminded him that he had volunteered to come with her, so he could just shut up and enjoy it.

Sandor scoffed. ‘Little bird’s got a beak on her,’ he teased, and she shot him a sharp look that quickly melted into a grin. He contended himself with wandering behind her at a slow pace, admiring the sway of her hips as she ascended the many staircases and the shape of her calves when she stood on tiptoe to peer over the battlements. To him, she seemed to be getting prettier every day.

 

It was well into the afternoon by the time Sansa was finally satisfied and consented that they could leave.

‘Just as well you didn’t hire a guide. They charge by the hour, you know,’ Sandor said as they ambled back towards town. To his surprise, Sansa’s hand shot out and landed a light punch on his arm. He stared at her in disbelief.

‘You just pipe down,’ she warned him, her forefinger raised in mock severity. ‘Come on. We’ll go and have a beer; will that make you happy?’

Sandor’s eyebrows shot up. A woman after his own heart. ‘Alright. But don’t tell me you’re a violent drunk, I don’t think I can take another one of those right hooks.’


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all INCREDIBLE and your comments are KILLING me!!! Thank you all! 
> 
> I am so excited to share this chapter with you so BUCKLE UP!

Sansa sipped her ale slowly, watching Sandor cast his gaze around the room. It was much busier in this pub than the Three Lions, and they were perched at the bar between rowdy groups of friends enjoying knock-off pints. She felt light-headed, and she knew it had nothing to do with the beer. She had enjoyed the day with Sandor even more than she’d expected and was relishing in the way little bits of the soft centre she knew he had were beginning to leak through the cracks in his hard exterior. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have a life with this man, to spend their days off together taking road trips in his old Jeep, wandering through castles and forests and little villages and then coming home to share a bed. It was a lovely picture.

 

‘Do you know anyone here?’ she asked him, itching for more conversation.

‘One or two,’ he grunted, picking up his glass to take a drink. It was the same dark beer he’d been drinking the day she met him. ‘No one I give two shits about.’

Sansa smiled, a little sadly. She knew he wasn’t quite as hateful as he liked to pretend, but there was an element of bitterness to his voice that was very real. ‘You don’t much like people, do you?’

He fixed her with a hard look that made her ache. Sansa squeezed her thighs together imperceptibly, hoping to hell he wouldn’t notice. ‘When people give me something to like, little bird, I’ll like ‘em. As it stands, they’re generally a bunch of cunts.’

Sansa wanted very badly to reach out and take his hand where it rested on his knee and hold it, as if through that physical touch she could pass some of the love and hope she still kept burning in her heart, after all she’d been through, into his. But he looked away again, and the moment passed. Sansa tried again.

‘Have you always lived in Wickenden?’

‘When I write my autobiography, little bird, you’ll be the first to read it,’ he snapped suddenly, and Sansa’s face fell. She shifted in her chair, placing a little more distance between them, and looked down at her hands. Every time she thought she was getting close enough to touch him he pushed her away. It had only been a simple question – some polite small talk, which she didn’t think was unreasonable given that they were _living_ together… the more she followed that thought process, the more frustrated Sansa became. She could feel his eyes on her, and at last he spoke.

‘I’m sorry,’ he grumbled, so low that the words were barely audible. ‘I don’t like to talk about it. Maybe one day, but not now.’

Sansa turned to meet his gaze, and as always, he had that infuriating effect of thawing her anger towards him in an instant.  ‘Why do you do that?’ she asked softly, sounding bolder than she felt. ‘You always push me away.’

 

Sandor opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a hand appeared out of nowhere and clapped down onto his shoulder, making him jump. A younger man, blonde-haired and ruddy with the glow of alcohol, was standing next to him, peering into his face.

‘Oi,’ the man grinned. ‘’Scuse me, but aren’t you the Hound?’

Sansa looked at Sandor, eyes widening. She recognized the look in his eyes – it was the same cold rage he had worn the day he shouted at her for staring at his scars, and again when they had met Bronn in the Three Lions.

‘What’s it to you?’ Sandor ground out, barely contained anger thick in his voice.

‘It _is_ you! Here, lads, it’s the bloody Hound,’ the man raised his voice to shout across the bar at his friends. Sansa saw a tick develop in Sandor’s neck as he visibly clenched his jaw. ‘You’re a legend, man,’ the blonde was carrying on, oblivious to the fact that Sandor’s eyes had turned as dark as a thundercloud. Sansa glared at the stranger. He reminded her of Joffrey. ‘The best fucking fighter Scotland’s ever seen. Well, except for your brother. Hey, that would be one hell of a fight! The Mountain versus the Hound.’ The man laughed and took a deep swill of his pint.

‘Why don’t you get your fucking hand off me before I break it.’

Sandor’s voice was deadly quiet, but a hush fell around them all the same as people turned their heads to look.

‘Hey, relax,’ the man raised the offending hand in mock surrender. ‘I’m a fan, that’s all.’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ came the answering snarl. ‘Go back to your friends or they’ll be carrying you home in a fucking shopping bag.’

Sansa’s heart was in her mouth. She desperately wanted the blonde man to go away, but it didn’t look likely – his red face was contorting into a sneer of false bravado as his eyes wandered over to her, then back to Sandor.

‘Fame still has its perks, I see. Can’t see why else a girl like her would be seen dead with a mutt like you.’

 

It happened very fast. Sandor was out of his stool and dragging the man by the scruff of his neck towards the door quicker than she would have believed possible for a man his size.

‘Stay there, Sansa,’ he bellowed over his shoulder as he flung the man out the door and followed behind him.

There was a terrible silence inside the pub, broken only by the sounds of a scuffle outside as every pair of eyes turned to stare at Sansa. She felt all the blood rush out of her head, then back again in a dizzying storm of reaction. Before she knew what she was doing, Sansa leapt up from the stool and raced outside.

 

In the carpark, Sandor was beating the blonde man with startling precision, his hands a blur as he landed punch after punch into the stranger’s stomach and face, ducking the retaliating blows with ease. Sansa stood rooted to the spot for a moment, terrified as she watched Sandor grab the man by his collar and lay into him relentlessly. It took a mammoth effort for her to find her voice, but when she did, there were hot tears streaming down her face.

 

‘Sandor, stop!’

 

When he looked up, there was blood splattered across his cheek, and Sansa knew it wasn’t his. She watched a series of emotions pass over his face as they stared at each other, and then he dropped the other man to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Her blood roared in her ears. She couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Time stretched between them – hours or seconds, she didn’t know – and then she was turning on her heel, hurrying off to where he’d parked the car. She heard his footsteps behind her, but didn’t look back. She felt like she was going to vomit, or maybe faint. The glow of the golden hours they had spent at the castle seemed so far away she could no longer reach it, and as she climbed wordlessly into the passenger seat of his car, it struck her that she really didn’t know Sandor at all.


	14. Chapter 14

The car ride back to Wickenden was the most painful of Sandor’s life. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and though he had wiped his hands on his jeans they were still smeared with blood. _No helping that. It’s not like she didn’t see everything anyway_.

 

Sansa was refusing to look at him, her body angled away and knees pressed hard against the passenger side door. He'd seen tear tracks on her face when he climbed into the cab and it had hit him harder than any of the few glancing blows the little blonde shit had managed to land on him. He hadn't meant to lose control like that - hadn't even meant to hit him. Sandor's intention had been to take the little cunt outside for a stern talking to, but then he had spat in Sandor's face and screamed ' _fuck you, and your dumb ginger slut_ ', and that was when he had seen red.

 

Sandor knew that his jig was up. If Sansa ever spoke to him again, there was no way he could avoid offering her an explanation for all that had transpired at the pub. He would have to tell her everything; his boxing career, his brother, his scars. It was over between them now - whatever _it_ was. She would never look at him in the same way once she knew. Sandor would never forget the expression on her face when she'd stared at him across the parking lot, the fear in her voice as she screamed for him to stop.

 

'Fuck,' Sandor muttered, and saw Sansa flinch out of corner of his eye. The hole in his heart tore itself open a little bit wider. He didn't want her to be afraid of him; couldn't bear to become a monster in her eyes. It didn't matter what anyone else thought - they could all go hang, as far as he cared. But Sansa... he remembered the way she'd looked at him on the morning he gave her the bird hide, the warmth in her smile. That was all out of reach now.

 

The day had been too perfect to last; Sandor realised that now. He cast his mind back to that perfect, sweet moment when she'd laughed at his lame little joke about the pamphlets, and the unfairness of it all made him want to weep bitter tears, even though he hadn't cried since he was a child.

 

He tried desperately to think of something to say that would fix this mess he'd made, but came up empty-handed again and again. There was surely nothing Sandor could do to earn her forgiveness, let alone affection, now - short of being an entirely different person, he thought, feeling wretched. Even kind, gentle Sansa had her limits. He thought about reaching out to touch her, to show her that he could be gentle, too; but there was blood on his knuckles and his sleeve, so he thought better of it.

 

When Sandor pulled up beside the Three Lions, Sansa opened the passenger door and jumped out before the car had even come to a complete stop. She ran into the pub; Sandor watched her go, heart sinking into his boots. A terrifying thought struck him - that she would be so disgusted by his behaviour that she would not return to the island - but he dismissed it quickly. She wasn't likely to give up on her puffins that easily. A special kind of torture lay ahead of him now, he knew. It would be one thing if he never saw Sansa again after today, but it was an entirely different sort of horror to know that he had months remaining on the Quiet Isle with her despising the sight of him. The summer stretched ahead in his mind as he imagined spending night after night sleepless, staring at the ceiling and longing for her. Sandor sighed, and pulled away from the curb. Perhaps the gods were finally punishing him for all his wrongdoings.

 

Sandor drank himself to sleep that night - and the next, and the one after that. On the last day before his return to the island, he considered visiting his mother's grave, perhaps to talk to her and clear his head; but he didn't think his wrung-out heart could take it.

 

The morning was warm when Sansa picked her way along the jetty just before sunrise, the water lapping at the hull of the boat with soft sushing sounds. He said nothing to her as she approached, but waited for her eyes to meet his so that he could gauge how bad the damage was and maybe offer some kind of apology. Sandor hadn't expected her to ignore him completely; but she did just that, stepping past him onto the deck and dumping her  pack in the cabin before making her way to the same little bench she had perched herself on on their first voyage, hunching over and turning her back to him. With a pang, Sandor remembered how she had sat with him in the cabin on their way back to the mainland only a week ago, and thought that she could not have made her feelings any clearer than she did with this simple action.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for breaking your hearts with the last chapter but ALL IS NOT LOST

Sansa was in turmoil. She had been ever since her trip to Darry with Sandor had gone so horribly wrong, and she could think of little else. Her mind rolled in maddening, endless cycles as she questioned what had happened, tried to solve his mysteries and fill in the many blanks with conjecture and fraught guessing games. The hardest part was how badly she wanted to forgive him, to move on as if nothing had occurred and go back to the way they had been, before. But she couldn't forget the violence she'd witnessed and the savagery in Sandor's actions. Sansa had been forced to realise that the hands she had seen create wonderful things, that she had often imagined giving her both comfort and unimaginable pleasure, could also inflict pain. For a woman who had experienced abuse at the hands of men before, this was no small thing, and the way his temper had flared so suddenly had scared her.

 

Sansa didn't want to be scared of men anymore.

 

But try as she might, there was still a part of her that was overcome with concern for him. The blonde man in the pub had said some things to Sandor that had upset him beyond anything she had yet seen, and though she didn't understand, she desperately wanted to. There had been that name again, " _the Hound_ ", and the mention of his brother. And the man had said he was a fan - was Sandor famous here in Scotland? Certainly, everyone she had met in Wickenden seemed to know him, but that wasn't unusual in a small town. Countless times now, Sansa had sat down at her laptop and typed his name into the searchbar of Google, only to lose her courage at the last moment. It seemed wrong, like she was sneaking around behind his back - and she still respected him, more than she cared to admit to herself. She was so tired of trying to crack him open; she wanted to hear it from him, to give Sandor the chance to tell his story from his perspective.

 

But he wouldn't talk.

 

All that horrible tense car ride from Darry to Wickenden, Sansa had desperately wanted him to speak. She wanted him to tell her he was sorry; to explain everything, to finally let her in, because they were here now and she'd seen everything so why hide himself anymore? But Sandor had been silent, save for a few muttered curse words. He'd been silent on the boat, going back to the Quiet Isle. And Sandor had been silent for the past week as he stubbornly avoided her. It had never occurred to her not to return to the island with him, but it drove her crazy that they always seemed to be coming back here; to this place of walking on eggshells and listening for one another's movements around the lighthouse so that they could keep the distance between them; a dance that was both incredibly cold and incredibly intimate.

 

To make matters worse, Sansa was now having dreams about Sandor. He plagued her thoughts all day as she wrestled to understand his complexities, and when she finally managed to fall asleep at night he was there, too. He was there in her little bedroom in the lighthouse, stripping her and kissing every inch of her skin. He was there on the little boat as it bobbed on a great, wide, empty sea, taking her on the deck with wild passion as salt spray washed over them and cooled the fever of their burning skin. And he was there in the lightroom with her, gathering her up in his arms and rocking into her with a rhythm that was so unbearably slow and sweet that Sansa would wake up aching for release. It was torture.

 

One evening, as Sansa was sitting on her bed listening to the waves crashing against the cliffs outside, she heard Sandor come in the front door. Straining her ears, she followed his movements through the belly of the lighthouse as he took off his coat and boots and washed up at the kitchen sink. Then she heard him coming up the stairs. Sansa expected him to go into his room on the floor below, but he kept climbing until the footsteps were right outside the door. Her heart was in her mouth, and she waited with bated breath as he paused on the landing, then continued up, up, up to the lightroom. He had only stopped for a few seconds - the most fleeting of moments - but it was enough, and it gave Sansa the courage she needed to follow him.

When she emerged on the top level, he was leaning against the balustrade that ran around the circumference of the platform, looking out at the silvery moonlight playing on the waves. She walked over and stood beside him, folding her arms over her chest and turning her body towards him. His eyes looked terribly sad.

 

'Talk.'


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I put you all through a lot the last few chapters so I hope this makes up for it! As always, thank you so much for all your comments, they are keeping me inspired and I'm so happy people are enjoying this work!

Sandor looked at Sansa, standing there waiting for him to speak, and had to admire how brave she was - braver than him, by far. He had tried to bring himself to talk to her a thousand times over the past week, and a thousand times he’d lost his nerve. But now she was here, demanding answers, and he had to have courage, because that was what she deserved. _Gods, she was lovely_. He noticed, not for the first time, a dusting of freckles on her collarbones, and he wondered how far down they went.

‘I'm afraid to tell you,’ he said suddenly, astonishing even himself with the honesty and vulnerability of that statement. ‘I'm afraid of what you'll think of me.’

‘I saw you beat a man to a pulp just last week, and you've offered me no explanation at all. Things can only get better from here,’ Sansa's tone was sharp, but her words gave him reassurance all the same. Her eyes were looking right into him, right into the fragmented, wretched mess of his soul, and he knew then that he was lost.

And so Sandor told Sansa everything. He started at the beginning, when he was so young that the memories were only fleeting, hazy things, and it all poured out of him like poison. When he got to the story of his scars, he felt her hand wrap itself around his elbow, and it anchored him to her, so that he felt safe and strong enough to carry on. She was silent through it all, but when his voice at last gave out and he couldn't go on - didn't _need_ to go on, because he felt she finally knew enough now to understand - he looked up at her to find her face awash with quickly falling tears.

‘Sandor,’ Sansa murmured, and there was a reverence to the way she said his name then, as if it were a holy prayer. ‘I didn't know.’

‘I know, little bird,’ his voice was thick with emotion, but he didn't have the energy to be embarrassed over it. And besides, here with her, there really was no need to be. In a strange way, although he had just torn himself open and shown her his raw, beating heart, he felt healed. ‘I didn't want you to.’

‘Thank you. For letting me in.’

Her lips were swollen with crying, and they trembled so sweetly that Sandor ached to kiss them. His hand raised up to where hers rested on his arm, and he squeezed her fingers gently.

‘I have a lot of anger in me, little bird. What you saw me do at Darry… I did so much worse, when I was in the ring. You can't know, the things I've done…’ he trailed off as she shook her head firmly.

‘You're not that person anymore. I know you're not. You lost control in Darry, but one mistake doesn't define you. Your _brother_ doesn't define you. You're your own man, Sandor.’

The need to kiss her flared inside Sandor's chest as he let her words wash over him. The little nagging voice in the back of his mind was telling him that this was far more than he deserved, but for once he shut that voice out and allowed Sansa's to replace it. He was looking at her mouth, and _gods_ he wanted to do it so badly, to cross the space between them and finally show her what she had come to mean to him, even if he couldn't bring himself to tell her. In the silence that followed, she gazed out to sea, lost in thought. Sandor looked too, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the thick glass that surrounded them on all sides.

_No_. He couldn't kiss Sansa. He was still the same old ugly dog he had been before, and her empathy and understanding, while comforting, would not change that. Gregor may not define him but he sure as hell had defined a great mass of scar tissue across one side of his head, and there was no way that Sansa would want that any closer to her.

‘Have you ever hit a woman? A girlfriend, or a partner? Please be honest,’ the question shocked him. Again, Sandor marveled at Sansa's bravery.

‘No. But that doesn't mean I was a good partner. I gave up on that sort of thing a long time ago.’

‘Like me,’ she smiled softly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

‘Aye,’ Sandor chuckled a little sadly, remembering what she'd said to him on the boat. ‘You don't have to be afraid. I won't hurt you, little bird.’

‘I know you won't.’

Sansa sounded so earnest then that it almost made him smile.

 

They stood watching the waves for a long time, the weight of everything that had been said that night hanging in the air above them. Sandor felt raw, chafed even, but it was a good feeling knowing that he had finally shared the whole terrible truth of his life with someone he trusted as much as Sansa. She held it in her hands now, and he knew she would be gentle with it. In just a month, this girl had become the most important person in his life, not only now but perhaps ever. That was a lot to bear.

 

Eventually, Sansa yawned and turned to him, her heavy eyelids adding a sensuality to her fine-boned face.

‘I'm glad you told me. I know it was hard; but I understand now. Good night, Sandor.’

And then her arms were wrapping around his waist, and she held him in a tight embrace. Sandor's breath caught in his throat as her head came down to rest on his shoulder, and he felt the swell of her breasts crush against him, just a few layers of fabric between their two heartbeats. He barely had time to register each of his senses, to take in her scent and the way her hair had so many different colours to it when he was up this close, how soft if felt against his neck, before she was pulling away again and padding off towards the stairs. Every fibre of his being was screaming for her to come back to him, but he couldn't seem to find his voice… and then she was gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to share this one with you guys so ENJOY

Sansa had been watching the puffin burrows more intently than ever since returning to the Quiet Isle. Some of the earliest arrivals’ eggs were getting close to hatching, and she didn't want to miss seeing the first pufflings of the season. Sandor had snorted when he heard her use that name in reference to the puffin chicks, and she had feigned indignance and told him that was the _scientific term thank you very much_. Sansa smiled at the memory as she trudged across the bluffs. Things had been much better between them since their moonlit conversation in the lighthouse, when Sandor had bared his soul to her. It still made her flush to think how bold she'd been to hug him; but at the time it had felt so right. He had been so warm and firm under her cheek, his back a wall of rippling muscle beneath her hands. He had smelled like sawdust and sea air. A tingle of arousal sparked low in Sansa's belly. What she wouldn't give to hold him against her again.

 

By now, she had reached the burrow of the earliest blooming pair on the island. She approached it from behind, so as not to startle them, and crouched low to the ground, listening for the familiar growl of puffins on the nest.

 

Silence.

 

Sansa shuffled a little closer and listened hard. The nest sounded empty. A chill passed down her spine. In recent years, puffin pairs had started abandoning their eggs, forced to fly too far afield to find food as fish stocks dwindled. This was what she had been afraid of - finding cold, empty nests. Sansa knelt at the mouth of the burrow and reached into its recesses, soft downy feathers brushing her knuckles. At last, her fingers curled around the smooth, hard shell of a puffin egg.

 

It was cold.

 

Sansa didn't know how long she sat by the burrow, hugging her knees and staring out at the horizon before she heard Sandor's heavy footfalls behind her. He squatted down beside her, peering into her face with an expression of concern.

 

‘What're you doing perched out here, little bird?’ he rumbled.

 

Sansa blinked the tears from her eyes, feeling them run hot down her cheeks. To her surprise, one of Sandor's huge hands reached out to her, and the rough pad of his thumb brushed along her cheekbone, his fingers grazing the hair at the nape of her neck as he wiped her tears. The gesture felt impossibly tender.

 

‘The burrow's abandoned,’ she sniffled. ‘The eggs would have been almost ready to hatch.’

 

‘I'm sorry,’ he sounded so genuine, but Sansa felt suddenly stupid - after everything he had told her, all the horrors in his past, here she was crying over a few cold eggs.

 

‘No, I'm sorry,’ she hiccuped, dashing away her tears impatiently. ‘I know it's silly to cry over. They always say not to get too attached to the animals you work with, but I can't help it.’

 

Sandor made a strange sound, somewhere between a sigh and a hum, and his warm hand squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘It must be hard having a heart as big as yours.’

 

Sansa chuckled thickly. It was just her luck that he would choose this moment to finally touch her, when her face was undoubtedly a puffy, blotchy mess. Still, it was so nice to feel his heat through the thick wool of her jumper, the strength in his fingers where they curled around her shoulder blade. It was incredibly comforting. And what a sweet thing for him to say; for all his gruffness, Sandor really was a good man.

 

He sat with her there for some time, watching the little flock of puffins come and go along the bluffs while the sea roiled on the rocks far below. Sansa relished in his nearness. Since Sandor had shared the details of his past with her, she found that she could see him in a whole new light. His terrible temper and bouts of surliness were no longer a mystery, now that she understood the details of his tragic childhood and the lonely years since. It wasn't that she felt sorry for him - she knew he wouldn't want her to, anyway - more that his soul made sense to her now. She wanted to hold it in her hands, to gather up the pieces and put them all back together, to take his suffering away.

 

But that was not the answer, and she knew it. Sansa couldn't fix Sandor; he had done that for himself, though perhaps he didn't realise it, when he chose to leave behind his old life. Some wounds would never fully heal, but they were a part of him; and while to the world he may not have been perfect, in her eyes he was.

 

That evening, when Sansa came in from her last puffin count of the day, it was to find Sandor sitting at the kitchen table in a warm ring of lamplight, bent over his hands and swearing a blue streak.

 

‘What's up?’ she asked, laughing.

 

‘Got the mother of all splinters,’ he replied, the last word trailing off into a hiss of pain as he tried again to retrieve it. ‘Cocksucker's in my right hand and my left's a useless piece of shit. I can't get it out.’

 

‘Let me,’ Sansa offered without hesitation, coming to sit beside him and taking the injured hand in her own. Sandor went quiet as he watched her, passing the tweezers over wordlessly.

 

There was indeed a very large sliver of wood embedded deep in the pad of flesh below his thumb, and to Sansa it looked extremely painful. A little bead of dark blood had welled up around the puncture wound, and she wiped it away carefully before setting about extracting the offending splinter. A thought struck her, and she giggled aloud.

 

‘Did you ever hear the story of the lion with the thorn in its paw?’ she asked, just as she pulled the damn thing out with a triumphant flourish. ‘Androcles was a slave, and he pulled the thorn out.’

 

‘Aye,’ Sandor replied, his voice a low growl. ‘And tamed the lion.’

 

Sansa looked up to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown, two great liquid pools that she wanted to drown in, and then his hand was cradling the back of her head, fingers slipping into her hair just as they had that morning on the cliffs. Sansa wasn't sure who leaned into who - perhaps they met in the middle - but suddenly Sandor's mouth was on hers, and she was melting into him as he kissed her, the whole world falling away until only they remained, alone on a rock out on the sea.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for your encouragement and enthusiasm for this story. It has been so much fun to write so far and you are all amazing.
> 
> A warning that this chapter is heavy on the smut and light on plot, so if you're not comfy with gratuitous sex maybe give this one a miss!

_Fuck it_ was the last thought that went through Sandor's head before his mouth came down on Sansa's. Just as he'd imagined, her lips were plump and smooth as velvet, and when they parted and her hot little tongue touched his he couldn't stop the groan that rolled low in his throat. She tasted like salt, and he could smell the soap on her skin as he took her face in his hands. _Gods_ , she had the softest cheeks he'd ever touched. Sansa made a little noise, a whimper almost, and he took it as a sign of encouragement, snaking an arm around her lithe waist and crushing her to him.

 

She broke away, and for a moment he thought he had moved too quickly, but she only stared at him with lust-bright eyes and whispered, ‘I've wanted this for so long.’

Sandor's heart swelled. In that moment, he felt like the luckiest man alive. ‘Me too, little bird. You drive me insane.’

And then they were kissing again, mouths moving in a desperate, sensual rhythm as their hands explored one another. Sandor took his time feeling each part of her body that he had admired for so long - the silky mass of auburn hair, her slender neck, the lithe muscle of her arms and shoulders, then down, down the elegant curve of her spine and the swell of her hips. She mewled when he cupped the firm peach of her buttocks, and he responded by hoisting her into his lap, where Sansa promptly wrapped her legs around him, as he had so often fantasized. Sandor was hard as iron and pressing against her centre, and when she ground herself down on him he saw stars, feeling the heat of her even through the thick fabric of their jeans.

 

‘Sansa,’ he panted, trying desperately to think rationally even as his hands slid under her jumper and up her back. The skin there was just as he'd imagine; like silk. ‘If you want me to stop…’

 

‘Sandor,’ Sansa's spine arched beneath his fingers as she moaned his name. ‘Please… don't fucking stop.’

 

He wasn't sure if it was the way she'd said his name, or just knowing that he had made her come undone enough to curse, but something pushed Sandor over the edge. He stood, bringing her up with him before placing her on the kitchen table. She clung to him, peppering his face - both sides - with hot kisses as he unbuttoned her jeans and peeled them down her legs. Slipping out of her embrace, he followed the progression of the fabric with kisses of his own, adoring the hard, bunched muscle of her athletic thighs that gave way to soft flesh at their apex. He kissed the insides of her knees, calves and ankles, prostrating himself before her as if in worship as he made short work of her socks. Sansa was flushed and smiling when he came back up to strip her of her shirt, planting kisses there, too; her pale belly, her ribs, the sweet mounds of her breasts and over her shoulders. Sandor noticed that her freckles came all the way down to her cleavage, and it made him hungry.

 

‘Fucking perfect,’ he murmured approvingly, at last returning to her lips. But that didn't last long, because soon she was tugging on his shirt, and he obliged her, pulling it over his head impatiently. Sansa buried her face in his chest, rubbing her cheek against the coarse hair there and pressing her lips to his skin lovingly.

 

‘You're so beautiful, Sandor,’ she whispered against his sternum, hands stroking his back. ‘I haven't stopped thinking about you for weeks.’

 

Sandor's head spun. It was unfathomable to him that Sansa should have been feeling the same way as him, all this time. But he could chew on that later; for now, he was more aroused than he ever remembered being in his life, and she was warm and soft and panting under his hands.

 

‘Fucking hells, Sansa,’ he growled, spreading his hand across her chest and pushing her gently back to recline on the tabletop. ‘I need to taste you.’

 

He hooked his fingers into her knickers - plain blue cotton - and coaxed them down. She lifted her hips to help him, and in a moment, she was bare to him.

 

‘ _Gods,_ ’ Sandor hissed, pressing his forehead to her thigh as he collected himself. ‘So fucking pretty.’

 

She was more gorgeous than he'd dreamed, even in his most explicit fantasies. Neat and pink, like the inside of a seashell. Sandor ran a finger gently along Sansa's slit, feeling her velvet softness. He could see as well as smell her arousal, sweet and earthy, and with two fingers he split her before licking a hot, wet stripe along the tender flesh. Sansa keened, her thighs clenching tight for a moment around his ears, and Sandor put his hands on her knees to push them apart, because now that he'd had a taste of her there was not a force on this earth that could pull him away until she was coming on his tongue. He lost himself in her, making love to her with his mouth as he let the little sounds she made wash over him. He laved the little pearl of nerves just below her mound, then travelled down to fuck her with his tongue. Before long, Sansa was writhing, panting his name in between long sighs and moans, and Sandor thought he could happily pleasure her in this way for the rest of his days.

 

‘You taste so sweet, little bird,’ he rumbled in between rhythmic sucks of her clitoris. ‘Are you going to come for me?’

 

‘Yes!’ Sansa screamed, her head dropping back against the table as she tangled her fingers in his hair, and he quickened his pace. ‘Please, don't stop, I'm going to…’

 

And she came. Sansa's orgasm there on that table was the most beautiful thing Sandor had ever made, he thought, and as he guided her gently down the other side with languid kisses to her pussy he reflected that it was a good legacy to leave.

 

‘Sandor,’ Sansa murmured as a shudder of aftershock coursed up her spine, and her husky tone made Sandor's erection throb painfully. ‘I want you inside me.’

 

With a groan, he rose up to capture her mouth again as he fumbled with the fly of his jeans. Sansa helped him, and in a few seconds her long, slender fingers were wrapped around the base of his cock. _Fuck_.

 

‘Little bird,’ he'd never heard his own voice sound so ragged as he fought to keep control of the burning lust coursing through him. ‘I don't have protection.’

 

‘Trust me,’ came the simple answer. Sansa tilted her hips and ran the head of him along her own sex, slippery and warm. Sandor’s eyes rolled back at the sensation. _She's so fucking wet for me_ . He couldn't wait any longer. His hand came down between them to replace hers, and he guided the tip of his cock to her entrance. One last time, he looked to Sansa for reassurance. Her eyes were dark, her cheeks flushed, and she uttered one word; ‘ _please._ ’

 

Sandor pushed into the tight, silky heat of her with a primal groan. She bit down on his shoulder as he felt her stretch to accommodate him, until he bottomed out inside her and they both cried out at the sensation. Sandor kissed her as he began to thrust, wanting to capture her every breath, every whispered expletive, as if that would help him to remember them later.

 

He had never experienced sex as it was with Sansa. Before, the act had always seemed like just that; a performance, and while he had certainly enjoyed it, there had always been an emptiness, a hollow feeling that he couldn't quite shake. But here, fucking Sansa on the table in this place that was his sanctuary, Sandor felt like every nerve, every cell in his body was on fire, like he couldn't get close enough to this woman who was making him feel things he didn't know he was capable of.

 

‘You feel so good, Sandor,’ Sanda whispered, her ankles locked behind his buttocks. ‘I need…’

 

‘I know what you need, lass.’

 

He kissed her face and raised himself onto one arm, letting his other hand come between them, where his thumb found her clitoris and began to rub quick, firm circles. She moaned in encouragement, and soon her eyes squeezed shut and he couldn't hold back any longer. Sandor thrust into her hard, a relentless rhythm that moments later had them coming together in a blaze of white light and ecstasy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO Y'ALL REALLY MEAN TO TELL ME THAT JORAH AND LYANNA GET A SCENE TOGETHER BUT SANSA AND SANDOR ARE NOT EVEN GOING TO SPEAK THIS SEASON? I'm completely resigned to no Sansan but I NEED CLOSURE!
> 
>  
> 
> CW for this chapter, discussions of past abuse and there will also be smut

Sansa felt boneless and sated as Sandor gathered her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. Without a word, he laid her on his bed and, fetching a towel, cleaned the moisture from her inner thighs with a tenderness that seemed impossible for such a big, rough man. She was glad she still habitually took the contraceptive pill, though for the last few years it was more for the convenience of regulating her cycle than anything.

 

Her mind was reeling from all that had just happened. She felt as if something had been unlocked inside her - as if Sandor had reached into her soul and released feelings that had been dormant for as long as she could remember. Never before had she felt the raw power of her own sexuality - never had she experienced an arousal that was so strong, so animalistic, and she had certainly never felt so confident and comfortable with a man. Sansa watched Sandor move around the room, shirtless, and admired his physique. He was a truly fantastic specimen - barrel chested and heavily muscled, covered in coarse, dark hair. She had often wondered what was under his clothes, and the reality was even more beautiful than she had imagined. She squirmed a little at the memory of his cock sliding into her. It was huge, just like the rest of him, but she hadn't felt an ounce of fear.

 

Sandor finally came to lie beside her, shucking off his jeans to reveal long, toned legs as hairy as the rest of him before curling his body around Sansa's and smoothing the hair back from her forehead gently.

‘Are you alright, little bird?’

Her chest felt suddenly tight with emotion. ‘Never better,’ she murmured, and she meant it. Sansa raised a hand to touch his face. His expression had never looked so soft, so open. She pressed a kiss to his lips, relishing in the feel of them against her own. Sandor hummed approvingly, a deep rumble in his chest that was almost a purr; but when Sansa pulled away to look at him, he grew serious.

‘You should know… I can't go back to the way things were, after this,’ he told her. ‘So if this wasn't serious for you, tell me now, and tomorrow I'll radio in for Tormund and Beric. I won't stop you from doing your work, but I can't be here with you if you don't want… _this_.’

 

Sansa's heart ached for him. To know that the poor man's self confidence was so low that everything that had transpired between them that night still was not enough to make him believe that she wanted him was almost too much to bear. 

‘I don't want things to go back to the way they were. I want this, _us_ , every day from now on.’

Sandor huffed a sigh at that, and drew up the covers to tuck them around her. It was cold in the room, but he was so warm, and she wanted to touch him everywhere. 

'In that case,' he murmured, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra - the last scrap of clothing she had on - and slide it down over her arms. 'There was one part of you I didn't quite get to.'

Sansa's nipples tightened - whether it was from the chill in the air or the intensity of Sandor's look, she didn't know. He made that noise again, that growling purr, and raised one huge hand to cup her breast, the rough pad of his thumb sweeping across the sensitive bud of flesh. 

'Perfect,' he rumbled. 'Your nipples are the exact colour I imagined. Pink like your lips.'

Sansa might have blushed, if it weren't for the sincerity in his eyes. She had never been treated with such reverence, such appreciation, before; it was as if she was being truly seen for the very first time.

'Little bird,' Sandor drew her back from her reverie, his fingers grazing her cheekbone now. 'You told me you haven't been with anyone for a long time. Why is that?'

Sansa was somewhat taken aback by his question. That had only been a fleeting remark - she had not expected him to remember it. But lying here now, naked as the day she was born and having just experienced something incredibly intimate with this man, she suddenly felt that she wanted to share that part of herself with him.

Even so, it was hard to meet his eyes as she slowly began to put the words together. She was letting Sandor in to a place of hurt, of wounds that were really only partially healed; and there was shame there, too - it didn't matter how much she tried to convince herself that it  _wasn't her fault_ , there was always a hungry seed of doubt that sprouted and grew in the dark recesses of memory.

'I had a boyfriend at university, for three years. I was young and naive, and at the beginning it was wonderful. But after a while... he was a very cruel person. He liked to taunt me until I cried, and then laugh and mock me. He used to accuse me of infidelity, would call me a "traitorous little slut" if he thought he saw me looking at another man. He'd even accuse me of flirting when we went out for dinner, if we had a male waiter, so eventually we stopped doing that. He didn't like me to see my friends, or my family, so I stopped seeing them too,' Sansa sighed, the weight of all that distant pain settling around her shoulders. 'He took all the good parts of me. I was crying every day, I had no one to reach out to because he'd isolated me from them. I would look in the mirror and not even recognise myself. I hated myself for what I let him do to me, but every time it got too much and I was going to leave, he'd break down and cry and say he didn't know why he treated me that way, that he needed help and he needed  _me_ and beg me not to leave him. And then for a little while he would be the boy he was at the start, just to remind me. But it never lasted. After a while I just started to believe him when he told me I deserved everything I got.'

Sandor was quiet while she spoke. At first, he rubbed small, soothing circles on her back, but as she went on his hand stilled, and Sansa felt tension gather in his body, like a coiled spring. She looked up at him, and saw a fire of rage in his grey eyes, a tension in his jaw.

'He hit you?' Sandor ground out at last.

'Only while we were having sex,' Sansa admitted. This part she had never told anyone. 'That way he could normalise it, I suppose. He told me that everyone did it and I was a prude if I didn't like it.'

' _Gods_ ,' Sandor hissed through clenched teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if to give himself time to gain control over the anger that was coursing through him. 'What made you leave?'

'One day we were fighting, like always; or, he was yelling and I was crying. And he was calling me awful names, and suddenly it didn't hurt anymore and I just felt numb. I had a clear realisation that I didn't love him anymore and that he certainly didn't love me, and I didn't deserve it at all. So I waited until he left the house, and I packed a few things and just left. I went back to my family.'

'That was brave.'

Sansa gazed up at Sandor. He still looked ready to punch something, but there was a steadiness to his voice now. 'I was stupid to stay so long,' Sansa shrugged, nestling closer to him.

'No,' he told her firmly. 'Bastards like that know how to manipulate, to play games. You left, and that's the important thing. You didn't let him get to you, not completely.'

Sansa smiled against Sandor's chest. To hear him, of all people, recognise and validate that battle she had fought was more comforting than she could have ever expected. Emboldened, Sansa went on to tell him about Baelish.

 

Now, Sandor had a much harder time controlling his temper. He was positively seething when she finished, breathing hard as if the effort to reign in his rage was a physical exertion. 

'That fucking bastard,' he growled, hands curling into fists. 'I'll fucking kill him. Him and that other little shit. I mean it, Sansa; just give me their names and I'll find them. I'll make it look like a fucking accident.'

The sincerity in his tone alarmed Sansa. She raised herself up until she was sitting beside him, and put her hands on his face, cradling it in an attempt to calm the storm. 

'Sandor,' she murmured. 'Come back to me.'

His eyes met hers, and she saw them soften imperceptibly as his hands came up to grasp her shoulders. 'How are you still so good?' He asked her, voice ragged with emotion.

Sansa smiled, a little sadly. 'You can't let the world make you hard, Sandor. Otherwise no one would be good to anyone.'

Sandor sighed, his hands smoothing down her back in a long caress as he came up to sit with her, pressing his forehead to hers. 'I am a hard man, Sansa. I'm mean, and I'm angry and that probably won't ever change. But I will be kind to you, for as long as you'll let me.'

Sansa kissed him then, because there was nothing she could say that would truly capture the depth of her feelings for him in that moment. There were hot tears on her face that she couldn't even remember shedding, but he kissed them away, kissed her eyelids and her cheeks and the lobes of her ears before coming back to plunder her mouth ravenously. Sansa felt that burning desire flare up inside her again, just as it had at the kitchen table barely two hours ago. Her skin felt too small, as if she were swelling with need. She couldn't get enough of him - her hands were everywhere, trying to commit to memory every smooth bulge of muscle, every raised scar, the places where his skin was hardened with exposure to the elements and then the softer parts, at his wrists and inside his elbows. 

 

Suddenly, Sandor pushed her forward onto the bed so that she lay on her belly. Pinning her hands on the pillow with one of his own, he laid scorching, open-mouthed kisses down her back, and the contrast of his velvet lips and tongue and the harsh scratch of his beard made Sansa cry out in pleasure. His other hand squeezed her ass, and then he was kissing her there, too, and Sansa couldn't bring herself to be embarrassed, so adoring were his attentions. Before long, Sandor was trailing his mouth back up her spine to her neck, and as he did he brought his body over hers, covering her so that he was everywhere, filling her senses; it was perfect. She wanted this - wanted  _him_ \- so desperately. She could smell him, fresh sweat mingling with the sawdust scent she had noticed before, and his breath was hot on her neck as he kissed and bit at her sensitive skin. Sandor's erection slid against her sex, which felt swollen, and Sansa ached for him to fill it again, to stretch her open with that delicious sensation that was just on the right side of pain as he had downstairs. She arched her back instinctively, seeking out his hard length with a little moan of frustrated pleasure, and he chuckled darkly in her ear, sending volts of electricity coursing through her.

'So eager,' he murmured, gathering a handful of her hair and pulling it so that her head fell back against his shoulder, opening her throat up to him. 'Do you want me to fuck you again, little bird?'

'Yes,  _please_ ,' Sansa didn't know how much more of this she could bear. Something was building inside her, a boiling heat low in her belly that desperately needed to be released. Sandor's beard rubbed against her neck as he ground himself on her again, and it was a storm of sensation that threatened to overwhelm her.

'Tell me you want me inside you again.'

'Sandor, I want your cock inside me, please let me have it,' Sansa gasped, and it was so unlike her to use that kind of language but Sandor was bringing something out in her, something that was primal and down right filthy and she found she didn't mind one bit.

Sandor didn't seem to mind either. With a growl that was more animal than human he pushed into her, and though she was wetter than she'd ever been in her life Sansa still felt a brief sting that quickly gave way to a delicious burn. 

'Fucking hells, you're so fucking  _tight_ ,' Sandor breathed, pulling out almost all the way only to thrust into her again, harder this time. His hand slipped beneath her to squeeze her breast as he found their rhythm, rocking into her relentlessly, the sensation at once too much and not enough. There was something about this position, the angle at which he was penetrating her, that had Sansa moaning within seconds. With every stroke he touched some secret part of her that sparked pleasure like flint on a stone.

'That's... so good,' Sansa gasped her encouragement as Sandor pressed his mouth to the sensitive skin beneath her ear, stifling his own groans as he did so. She pushed back against him, desperate for  _more_ , for the wave that was building and cresting inside her to come crashing down and drown her.

'Little bird,' his affectionate name for her tore from his throat in a rough grunt as the hand that was pinching her nipple snaked lower, seeking out that little bundle of nerves that he seemed to know his way around better than she did herself. 'I want to feel you come again. Can you do that for me?'

Within seconds of his fingers making contact with her, Sansa felt her muscles begin to flex around his cock and the sensation of pure, burning satisfaction flooded her. She screamed from the impact, then quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

'No,' Sandor growled, and he pulled her hand away as he continued to pound into her, drawing out her orgasm. 'I want to hear you.'

Sansa let go completely. She moaned in ecstasy as pleasure surged through her, curling her toes and fisting the bed covers. She felt hypersensitive, experiencing everything so acutely - the rub of Sandor's chest hair against her back, his breath tickling her neck, the slick, wet sounds of their coupling and every inch of his thick manhood as he fucked her. She rode out the wave of her peak, letting her hips go slack and following Sandor's rhythm. Moments later, Sandor's grip on her hair tightened, and she knew the thread had broken for him too. He thrust into her hard and fast, reawakening those last tremors of her pleasure as he found his own, her name on his lips as he shuddered and cursed before falling against her, both of them slick with sweat and panting. 

'Fuck me, Sansa,' Sandor gasped after a few moments, in which they both got their breath back. He kissed her shoulder and rolled off her to sprawl across the bed, taking up far too much space than one man had any right to. 'Where have you been all my life?'


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short n smutty! Couldn't resist putting this in here. Sandor deserves it IMO

Sandor woke some time in the wee hours of the morning. It was dark in his room, but a sliver of bright moonlight fell through the window and across the rumpled covers of his bed. His face was buried in Sansa's hair, which was strewn across the pillow. His body was tessellated around hers, his knees against the backs of hers, her back against his chest. How many times had he imagined waking up to this? Sandor didn't know, but as he raised a hand to gently brush a lock of hair out of Sansa's peaceful face, slack with sleep, he felt a few fragments of his shattered old soul fall together and melt into one, healed. There was a tenderness to this moment unlike anything he had ever known.

Sansa made a little noise in her sleep, her hand finding his and curling around his index finger. More pieces fell into place. Sandor reflected on all that had passed between them in the hours since he had finally given in and kissed her.  _Gods_ , she had told him that she wanted him - that she had wanted him for some time. It felt unreal, like some highly coloured and fantastic dream; but here she was, slumbering in his arms instead of in the creaky old bed above him, driving him insane with the distance between them. It went against every fibre of his being to believe her, but then Sansa was no liar; and it was hard to fake the affection she had showered on him as they made love. She'd opened herself up to him, here in his bed, sharing the pain of her past and trusting him with it, too. It had taken every ounce of his strength not to explode, to let the anger that roared in his belly manifest itself; but he had reminded himself, as he did now, that was not what she needed. Sansa didn't need someone else to be angry; she needed comfort, strength and kindness, and a safe place to put her love that wouldn't betray her. He could be that safe place for her. 

Sandor tightened his arms around Sansa, nestling a little deeper into the silky lengths of her hair, and allowed sleep to roll over him once more. 

 

Hours later, dawn was breaking over a flat sea the colour of iron, and Sandor was lingering on the edges of sleep, sensing the room beginning to lighten on the other side of his eyelids. He was only vaguely aware of Sansa moving next to him, rolling onto her back and stretching like a cat, before burrowing beneath the covers. Her hand moved over his body, across his shoulder and down his abdomen in a smooth, firm caress that stirred him, cock hardening before he had even completely regained consciousness. A moment later, that particular part of him was treated to the most incredible sensation he had ever experienced.

'Fuck...' he croaked, passing a hand over his eyes as Sansa's mouth enveloped him again, this time with a movement that was less exploratory and more determined. She felt amazing - hot and wet, her supple tongue curling around his shaft. Her lips were tight around him, and as his hand found its way into her hair and gripped it she hummed happily, sending ripples of sensation right to his core. Sandor let her name escape him in a deep groan, head falling back against the pillow as he surrendered himself to her ministrations. She seemed to know exactly what to do with him, changing the pressure, speed and intensity to work him into a lather then coax him back down again and again. Each time he thought she was going to let him peak, she would deny him; it was an exquisite kind of torture. He raised his head to gaze at her, and she was looking right back at him, red hair tousled and cheeks hollowed out around his cock.

Sandor swore under his breath, the eye contact between them enough to take his arousal to new heights. He watched in awe as Sansa pulled him from her mouth and whorled her tongue around the sensitive, engorged flesh of his head, lapping up the fluid that was gathered there. He committed the vision before him to memory, tucking it away - a precious thing.

 

As Sansa settled into the task, she began to take him deeper, swallowing a little more of him with each bob of her head and sucking him hard as she pulled away, as if he were the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. Soon, he felt the head of his cock hit the back of her throat, and though she choked a little she didn't stop, nor pull away. She gave herself time to adjust, and then he was slipping deeper still, and a moment later her tongue had extended and run a slow, sensual course across his balls as he was sheathed fully in her mouth.

It was all Sandor could do not to buck his hips, so intense was the sensation. His exclamation of  _fucking hells_ seemed to spur her on, and she repeated the action several times. It was enough to push Sandor over the edge of the precipice he had been teetering on since she first put her lips on him, and before he could warn her he was coming hard in her mouth. His vision went black for a moment, all of his muscles tensing and then relaxing in turn, the pleasure more intense than anything he had ever known. The hand that held a fistful of Sansa's hair clenched tight, then fell to the mattress a dead weight. He opened his eyes in time to watch as Sansa swallowed his seed, then took him in her mouth again to lick him clean, gentler this time, a smug look on her face. 

'Gods, lass,' he breathed, shuddering as little waves of the aftermath of his orgasm rocked him. He raised a hand to brush her cheek, and she turned her face to kiss his palm before crawling up his body to lie in the nook beneath his arm, just the right size for her. 'You're fucking good at that.'

'Really? It was good?' she gazed up at him, her face a picture of hopeful innocence. Sandor had to laugh - the contrast between her expression now and the one from moments ago, with his cock in her mouth, was too much.

'Aye, it was good,' he chuckled. 'The best, in fact. You must know that.'

Sansa shook her head, and he pulled away a little to get a better look at her face.

'No? You ever done that before?'

'I've  _done_ it before. Just... never like that. I've never felt...' she gestured helplessly with one hand as she struggled to find the words. ' _Inspired_.'

Sandor felt his fondness for her swell, almost painful in its intensity.  _Sweet thing_. He pressed his lips to her forehead, as much to hide the emotion in his eyes as anything. Outside, he could hear the din of the seabirds as they swarmed around the bluffs; puffins, gannets and terns, all heading out to sea to fish; and below their dawn chorus, the faint crash and pull of waves on the rocks, a ceaseless rhythm of life that was oddly soothing in its perpetuity. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been thinking about this AU a lot recently and thought it was kind of a shame it ended so quickly because I had so much fun writing it. I wanted to add in this little chapter after a request from LadyCleganeoftheNorth, and if you guys like this and want it to continue there may be more additions to come, we'll see! I'm definitely open to prompts and requests if you guys have any. Thanks again for reading!

A brisk wind was rising, driving a swell of white water against the rocks and the footings of the jetty. Sansa felt the cold spray on her cheeks, and turned her eyes to the horizon, briefly. Though the sun fell on her shoulders, dense clouds were gathering in the distance, bringing with them a veil of driving rain that was sweeping down on the sea in sheets. It would be upon them before too long. She wished, not for the first time, that she and Sandor were puffins themselves, with a cosy little burrow to nest in when the changeable Atlantic weather bore down on them. Half-smiling at the absurdity of the thought, she glanced over at him, standing motionless at her side in his old plaid jacket. He looked tense; she could see a tick going in his jaw, and followed his eyes to the object of his attention; the little green boat, its peeling hull so familiar to her now, bobbing resolutely closer and closer to the jetty. Through the plexiglass window of the cabin, Sansa could just make out the bright orange of Tormund's beard as Beric clambered on deck, squinting into the wind and readying himself to tie off. 

 

Sansa could guess what was bothering Sandor. Their relationship was so new; it had only been days (or was it weeks? She had lost track...) since that passionate night they had come together. Every night since had been much the same - and every morning, and every afternoon... Sansa couldn't help but blush when she thought about all the places in that lighthouse that Sandor had made love to her, feeling a twinge of guilt at the idea of Tormund and Beric eating their porridge at the very same kitchen table on which she had been pleasured over and over. That had been nice - the cramped little shower, its tiled walls slippery with steam as she scrabbled for purchase whilst Sandor thrust into her, that had been nice too... But by far the most magical night for Sansa had been when he took her to the lightroom.

 

It had been a clear night, with a sliver of moon rising over the obsidian mirror of sea all around, and more stars than Sansa had ever seen. Sandor had lain her down on a blanket and undressed her, right there on the platform. He'd kissed her whole body, tasted all the soft, secret parts of her she didn't think another human had ever bothered to touch - the backs of her knees, beneath her jaw, her wrists - and other areas she didn't care to name. The way he fucked her then had felt almost other-worldly in its intensity, and she'd cried after for the sheer joy of it.

 

But despite all that, Sansa knew that, deep-down, Sandor was unsure. It was one thing to have her all to himself, here on this tiny little rock where days could pass without a sign that there was anyone else in the world but them; but bringing other people into the equation would always change things. He was nervous. Carefully, she extended a few fingers and caught the rough edge of his palm, impossibly warm despite the cold of the day. Sandor started as if shaken from a dream, and looked down at her with eyes wide and questioning. She nodded once, and felt his huge hand wrap around hers in response. His jaw relaxed, and there was the ghost of a smile in the creases that formed beneath his eyes. Sansa's heart swelled, and they both turned back to watch Beric and Tormund disembark, hand-in-hand now, a united front.

 

It did not go unnoticed.

 

Tormund turned towards them, arms full of carefully packed provisions and mouth already open to holler a greeting, and stopped dead at the sight before him. Beric, ever the calm and measured antithesis to Tormund's bursts of excited energy, looked over his shoulder and gave a knowing smile. Sansa squeezed Sandor's hand in reassurance.

 

'Fucking hells, Hound!' Tormund bellowed, dropping his supplies unceremoniously onto the wet boards of the jetty and striding towards them. 'Am I dreaming?'

He rubbed his eyes theatrically and blinked at them, smiling crookedly. 'Pinch me, Dondarrion! No, punch me in the face - this can't be real!'

'Alright, alright,' Beric's scolded gently, steering Tormund aside with a firm hand on his shoulder and stepping closer to Sansa and Sandor. He looked from one to the other, his good eye gleaming with something that looked suspiciously like pride. 'Now then, is this what it looks like?'

Sansa nodded, unable to keep the smile from splitting her face as she turned to look at Sandor. There was an odd expression on his countenance, and Sansa wondered if he was trying to stop himself from grinning, too. Eyes on Beric, he inclined his head and gruffly replied, 'aye.'

'Well, well,' Beric's smile widened. 'Seems our Clegane's got a soft spot after all, Tormund. I had a feeling.'

'Shut the fuck up,' Sandor snapped, but his voice lacked the acidity it had once held, and even as he said it his thumb swept across Sansa's knuckles in a gentle caress. 'I can still lay you both on your arses as easy as breathing.'

Tormund roared with laughter, and even Beric gave a throaty chuckle. 

'You don't scare me, Hound,' Tormund lumbered over, teeth flashing alarmingly as he grinned through his beard. 'You're nothing but a big sweetheart, and what's more, you love gingers after all! Come here,' the shorter man lunged at Sandor in an attempt at wrangling him into a hug, but Sandor dodged him with all the startling grace of a seasoned boxer and landed a blow to Tormund's shoulder that sent him careening off balance, eventually landing on his rear with a wet  _thud_. After a moment of shocked silence, Tormund began to chortle again, joined by Beric and Sansa, and even Sandor made that strange huffing noise that Sansa now knew to mean he was amused. In an oddly charitable gesture, he let go of Sansa's hand and stepped forward, offering his big paw to help the prone man up.

 

'Try that again,' he rasped as he hauled Tormund to his feet. 'And I'll knock you into the sea.'

Tormund nodded amiably, satisfying himself with clapping a hand on Sandor's shoulder and turning his bright gaze on Sansa. 'So, you tamed the beast, eh?' he asked her.

'I wouldn't say that, exactly,' Sansa said, looking fondly up at Sandor. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn he was blushing. 

'Aye,' he grunted, bending at the waist to pick up their packs and shoulder both at once. 'She's the one that needs taming, little she-wolf.'

Sansa's mouth fell open in shock.  _Did he just make a joke?_ Sandor turned to her and winked, confirming her suspicions and triggering a girlish giggle that she couldn't quite suppress in time. Beric put a fatherly arm about her shoulders as Sandor turned and began to stride down the jetty towards the boat.

'He's happy,' he told her. 'And we're happy to see it.'


	22. Chapter 22

Sansa was lying on her back in the grass, watching puffs of clouds chasing each other across a field of pale blue sky. Every time she thought she spotted a shape, it would morph into something new, and it made her think about how quickly her own life had changed. Against the silvery clouds, the dark silhouette of seabirds wheeled, and from the bluffs behind her, Sansa could hear the  _ peep _ ing of hungry pufflings waiting for their parents to return and feed them. They were all hatched now, sweet, round, fluffy little things with button eyes and feet far too big for their bodies. Sansa loved them, and she could watch them all day if it didn't make their parents nervous. Only three nests in the whole colony had been abandoned, as far as she could tell, and she supposed that wasn't too bad.

 

The arrival of the pufflings had made her reflect on motherhood, and whether it was something she might hope for in the future. Sansa had always wanted children; loved the idea of a little nuclear family, of raising a baby and filling a house with laughter and joy. She had all but given up on that dream; her messy early twenties had dashed her hopes of ever finding a man whom she could start a family with. But things were different now.

 

Sandor was not the kind of man she would have pictured herself falling for - brooding and cranky - but now, she found it hard to imagine her life without him. Perhaps it was the altered reality of this place, the time spent together in perfect isolation that had made her feelings grow so strong, so quickly. Or perhaps it was simply him, his honesty and the gentle kindness he showed when he thought no one was watching, the things he stirred in her that she had never felt before. The last few weeks had been pure bliss, but the nagging knowledge that soon the chicks would be ready to take flight, and before long the whole colony would leave for the winter, was always at the back of Sansa's mind.

 

As if he could hear her thoughts, Sansa heard the soft  _ shush _ ing of Sandor's boots in the long grass as he approached her. For a moment, he towered over her prone form, a massive silhouette against the afternoon sun - and then he folded himself down to lie beside her, pressing a kiss to her lips before reclining with his hands folded behind his head. 

 

‘Mm,’ he hummed appreciatively, closing his eyes and basking like a lizard. ‘Sun's good today. You'll be getting freckles, little bird.’

Sansa slapped him playfully, and he opened one eye to regard her with a wolfish expression, grinning as he added, ‘you know I love your freckles.’

Sansa blushed. She did know. Only last night, Sandor had spent what felt like hours kissing every single one on her chest and shoulders. He chuckled, and closed his eye again. Sansa watched him in silence for a while. He looked so peaceful, happy even, worlds away from the troubled man she had met when she first arrived in Wickenden.

‘Sandor,’ she said at last, wincing at how small her voice sounded. 

‘Hm?’ he grunted sleepily, reaching out for her with one hand and curling it around her arm. She raised herself up on one elbow to look at him, and his eyes blinked open.

‘So serious, little bird,’ he murmured, stroking her face gently. ‘What is it?’

‘What will happen with us? When the summer's over?’

Sandor looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then he asked, ‘what do you want to happen?’

 

Sansa felt a little exasperated - part of her had wanted him to make the decision for her, but she knew he didn't quite have the self confidence for that. She sighed gently. ‘I want to be with you. I want to start a life with you. But I want to know if there's room for me.’

‘Of course there is,’ he told her, hand slipping from her cheek to curl softly around her neck, his fingertips toying with the soft hair at her nape. ‘I told you, little bird. I'm yours, for as long as you'll have me.’

Sansa leaned into him for a long kiss, his arms moving around her and pulling her into a tight embrace. 

‘What if I said…’ she trailed off, feeling suddenly nervous. 

‘Go on,’ he encouraged her, rubbing her back.

She cleared her throat, and then it all came out in a rush. ‘What if I said I wanted to have children?’

Sandor looked at her then for so long that Sansa's heart began to race. She could see him turning it over in his mind, processing what she had just asked. At last, he spoke, and his voice was thick with emotion. ‘Then you'd make me the happiest man alive.’

Sansa let out a breath that she hadn't known she was holding. ‘We can't raise children here. When the time comes we'd have to live in town.’

Sandor nodded. ‘When you're ready, little bird. You just say the word. I'm your dog now - I'll go wherever you call me.’

 

Sandor made love to her right there in the grass, under the great wide sky, and as the seabreeze slid over their skin Sansa knew that no matter what happened and where they went in their life together, this would always be their place. They would always belong here, on a tiny rock somewhere in the North Atlantic, with the waves crashing around them and the rest of the world nothing but a distant memory. 


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I just have to say a big, big thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on this work, especially to those who followed the chapters and asked for more! If it weren't for all of you being so amazing and encouraging I doubt this would have ever been finished. I haven't written creatively in YEARS and had so much fun doing this, so thank you! Please enjoy this fluffy as hell final chapter xxxx ❤❤❤

It started to rain just as Sandor came in the gate of the little cottage, the grey clouds that had been threatening him all day as he worked finally bursting. Dusk was falling heavily over the landscape, a blanket of soft shadows settling on the neat little garden and surrounding fields. There was a glow at the kitchen window, and inside he could see Sansa's head, a sloppy bun of auburn hair waggling comically as she danced while she cooked. He stood for a moment and took it all in, ignoring the moisture that was settling in his hair. If someone had told him two years ago that he would be coming home to this, Sandor would have laughed - or, more likely, punched their lights out. But, somehow, against all odds - including him being a miserable old shit - he had managed to secure the life he'd always secretly dreamed of. Sandor sighed happily and ducked under the lintel, shaking out his coat before stepping through the door into the warmth of their home.

 

He was met by a delicious smell wafting from the kitchen, and soft blues on the stereo. Sansa called out to him as he was kicking off his boots.

‘Hi! Come in here and taste this, will you?’

Sandor smiled to himself as he followed Sansa's voice through the cosy hallway and into the kitchen. She loved this room - it had been one of the major selling points of the cottage for her. She said that the old cast iron stove reminded her of the lighthouse, and Sandor had to agree. 

 

Sansa was bent over the oven, red and white checked apron splattered with sofrito but a wide grin on her face as she sniffed whatever she was cooking appreciatively. Sandor paused a moment just to take her in. He would never get tired of looking at her, even though he now knew her so well that he could have painted her from memory, if he was any kind of artist.

‘Smells fucking delicious,’ he told her, striding across the floorboards to take her in his arms. He dropped a long kiss to her lips, then pulled back slightly to look at her some more. ‘Hello,’ he rumbled, as an afterthought.

‘Hello, beautiful man,’ her smile was positively angelic, and it made Sandor's heart feel too big for his chest. ‘I'm making paella,’ she waggled saffron-stained fingers at him, as if to prove a point. ‘And we're celebrating.’

‘Is that so?’ he asked, releasing her from his embrace and leaning against the countertop to happily receive the spoonful of rice and vegetables that she held out to him. It was a riot of flavour on his tongue, the smoky tang of paprika making his mouth water for more.

‘Yes, two things,’ Sansa turned away and busied herself chopping parsley as she talked. ‘First, my puffin paper got published.’

Sandor felt himself puff up with pride, and he couldn't resist wrapping his arms around her middle to squeeze her against him. ‘That's my girl. Congratulations, little bird.’

Sansa giggled, turning in his embrace to face him. He looked down at her; the dusting of freckles across her neat little nose, the soft tendrils of hair curling at her temples, her deep blue eyes rimmed with pale lashes as fine as silk. ‘My gorgeous, clever girl,’ he murmured, and though the words came out choked he didn't give two shits. He felt so safe loving Sansa now that he didn't care who knew. He'd shout it from the rooftops if she asked him. ‘What's the second thing?’

 

Sansa's eyelids fluttered for a moment as she looked down, then back up to meet his gaze. She reached behind her to take one of Sandor's hands in her own and brought it round between them to press against her belly. Sandor's eyebrows shot up, a silent question to which she nodded her answer. 

‘Fucking hells,’ he murmured, and before he knew it there were tears in his eyes. He pictured Sansa, glowing with motherhood, holding their baby in her arms and looking up at him adoringly as she was now. He dropped to his knees before her, the strength of his own emotion too much to bear as he pulled back Sansa's apron and shirt to press kisses to her pale belly, still flat but holding the promise of life, of his child. She cradled his head in her hands, laughing and crying at the same time.

‘Sansa,’ he pressed his cheek to her skin, as if hoping to hear the baby's little heartbeat. ‘My little bird. I love you, I love you so much.’

And then she was there on the floor with him, her arms around his neck as she clung to him and kissed his face. ‘I love you, too, Sandor. You're going to be an amazing father, I know it.’

 

They stayed there a long time, wrapped up in one another and the warm glow of a love that was stronger than anything either had experienced before. Sandor’s life was altered beyond recognition from the miserable existence he had once led - that was all behind him now. The demons of his past were distant memories; days went by now in which he did not think of Gregor, and when he did it was not with the burning hatred he once had, only sadness. He didn't need to be alone anymore; he needed Sansa, and all the long dormant things that she had reawoken in him. She was his island now - his safe place, a steady, calm, enduring force beside him. She brought him comfort, but she also inspired him to be better, to  _ do  _ better. And for her, and for the child that they would raise together, he would.


End file.
